I have searched for a reason to explain the lapse of time since my last post, but I cannot seem to find one. Oh, I certainly can find plenty of excuses, but on some level, excuses feel dishonest. I have been guilty of hiding behind excuses, although we justify them at the time, you know what I mean, “I didn’t want to hurt their feelings” or “It felt right at the time”. Why do we get caught up in the effort of excuse making when the truth provides such freedom. The excuse seems to lend to a continuum of misguided thinking, a false sense of security, a slight of hand on our mind’s perception. So, why? What am I gaining from the excuse? I have explored the question on many occasions, I mean earnestly looking for truth. While I was driving down a back, country road, the answer came to me…security, that’s it.
Taking inventory over my childhood, I realized I never had a favorite stuffed animal, a doll, or blanket that provided me with comfort or security. Wandering through my childhood was more like a lost adult, a gap in time missing, keeping me forever searching for a hand to pull me up from the deep end towards safety. As that child, safety was defined with stipulations, deception, rewarded only the good; it was confusion. As a child lying in my bed only to have the covers stripped away, leaving my body exposed to the coldness of the world around me, yet again, safety eluded me. I longed for warmth, love, acceptance, but was denied the blanket of security that could provide the necessity of being. Childhood is where I crafted the art of excuse. If I excused my upbringing, I could find a way to love that wasn’t as painful as reality. I would deny myself understanding with the excuses. The excuses provided a different account of my childhood to those looking in from the outside, and ultimately an appearance of normalcy.
Today, I sit at my laptop, while my reflecting becomes recorded with the tapping of each key. Returning to my childhood is still a painful act for me. Pain does change over time, stings less, and the cause revealed to the adult me. I no longer make excuses for my childhood, for it no longer provides comfort or security. Fitting in with those around me is not important; I do not want to camouflage myself into my surroundings. I don’t fear solitude as I now find serenity in the silence.
Through my self-expedition, I let go of excuses. In that remote desert, I found my security blanket, colorful as each memory of healing, and at last my inner child has found peace.