Hope is where they live, the bastion of power that runs contra-reason
somewhere between acquiescence to despair and quiet apathy facing
each of the 24 hours a day, each of the 7 days a week, each of the 52
dealing with overwhelming responsibility, unforgiving parenthood.
Where are all the ideal children, perfectly respectful, gifted physically,
emotionally, intellectually, full of grace, courageous, cunning, gentle,
confident yet humble, given to wisdom beyond experience, forgiving
of parental shortcomings . . . everything that they have never hoped.
Oh bother! ! ! Can't life be as easy as we expect it and hope it to be?
Children of children of children ad infinatum iteration inexhaustible
children of gods become gods who begat children of gods that become
gods ? ? ? or is that Gods? ? ? And what of the Gods of Gods? What next?
Who's on the top of this grand pyramid? Am I just another cycle in
eternal acquiescence? Is there individuality or will I just be blended into
some infinite ethereal whole in process of its own spiritual evolution?
Perfection of the whole by perfection of parts and the parts of the parts.
Perhaps my rebellion, my questioning, indicates disqualification - or -
is that very awareness that which separates the masses? Will I continue?
The perfection of the soul seems inordinately distant in the context of
the daily tedium of raising children. But what if raising children is actually
training for raising Gods. . . .?
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