Writing the Parent Story

I wonder if in the physiology of a human, there isn’t a very large red button lying hidden somewhere – behind an ear or knee cap perhaps? Shiny, well polished, this button has been carefully honed and crafted and is poised ready for action. As if all the bio survival responses from childhood, behavioural patterns expertly fashioned and set so deep into the frequency of us that we don’t even know they exist, beliefs, values and identities that we wear as costumes in the theatre of our lives are all connected to this one shiny red button. For some people, pushing that red button may be like playing the pokies and winning a very loud jackpot that spews out in thousands of gold coins spilling over the edge of the fluro flashing machine onto the vomit green casino carpet below. For others, pushing that red button results in the detonation of a 1950’s nuclear bomb in a desert just near that casino, generating relentless gale force winds intent on a rampage of destruction.

We catch glimpses of the power of our individual red buttons but don’t realise their full potential until the day they are pushed.

There is an old farm on the rolling hills of Kin Kin, on the Sunshine Coast hinterland. The first time I was there, I sat on a grassy knoll outside the laundry and looked out over the valley. An old wooden clothes line stood silently behind me and I suddenly held a memory of my parents standing in front of it holding me closely as a baby between them while the afternoon winter breeze tugged at their hair. I could feel their warmth right there in the sunshine of the memory and felt safe and loved. There is a large possibility that I did indeed visit this farm with my parents when I was 6 months old as it is very close to my aunt and uncle's old farm in Cooran. who knows - great story though! :-)

Sitting on the grassy knoll overlooking the valley of my memory, there is an emerging and definite pattern of a succession of parents with different faces, places and spaces both past and present holding me between them as a cute chuckling baby girl. They truly do love her but also feed into ancient vibrational patterns and play familiar games that invariably manifest similar end results. It is in the pushing of that very shiny red button, hitting the jackpot and exploding the bomb, that the baby sees the timelessness of the safety and the love without the need to be held by external parents, appreciating that this pattern, and the subsequent tug of war games have kept this dynamic alive for long enough.