![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59They Paved Paradise and Put Up a Parking Lot*
-:- -:- -:- -:-
When I got home from work today, I found that my father had torn up a bunch of my morning-glories.
It didn't surprise me any; he does this all the time, and the fact that it always upsets me never makes any difference. I go over and tell my mother and watch the family dynamics play out. I wish things were different. I wish my father understood me better. I know he loves me, but he has no empathy.
And my mother is so connected to me, I'm so connected to her, sometimes it's like we breathe the same breath. It's comforting and smothering at the same time. If she were different, if she held me tighter, I wouldn't've survived.
Who knows what'll be dead when I come home tomorrow. If my father had his way, there'd be nothing but brick and stone and gravel everywhere, asphalt and cement.
Later that same entry . . . .
The thing is--it's always the thing is. The thing is, I understand that my father doesn't get it. No reason he should. What I don't understand is why he has to get it. That's the truth about my connection to my mother: she doesn't really understand me that well, not in the details. She understands me in the intensity, in the emotion, in the passion. The particulars of what I'm passionate about aren't the issue; they don't matter. She brings it down to the essentials: this is a thing you love, and that's enough. She respects my passion, and the choices it leads to.
I think it's a laissez faire kind of love; not hate the sin but love the sinner, but love the sinner and understand the sin. You're a responsible adult until you've proved otherwise. So I struggle to understand my father killing my flowers (and doing nothing to the thistles I've complained about more than once), struggle to believe he really loves me.
*Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell
-:- -:- -:- -:-
When I got home from work today, I found that my father had torn up a bunch of my morning-glories.
It didn't surprise me any; he does this all the time, and the fact that it always upsets me never makes any difference. I go over and tell my mother and watch the family dynamics play out. I wish things were different. I wish my father understood me better. I know he loves me, but he has no empathy.
And my mother is so connected to me, I'm so connected to her, sometimes it's like we breathe the same breath. It's comforting and smothering at the same time. If she were different, if she held me tighter, I wouldn't've survived.
Who knows what'll be dead when I come home tomorrow. If my father had his way, there'd be nothing but brick and stone and gravel everywhere, asphalt and cement.
Later that same entry . . . .
The thing is--it's always the thing is. The thing is, I understand that my father doesn't get it. No reason he should. What I don't understand is why he has to get it. That's the truth about my connection to my mother: she doesn't really understand me that well, not in the details. She understands me in the intensity, in the emotion, in the passion. The particulars of what I'm passionate about aren't the issue; they don't matter. She brings it down to the essentials: this is a thing you love, and that's enough. She respects my passion, and the choices it leads to.
I think it's a laissez faire kind of love; not hate the sin but love the sinner, but love the sinner and understand the sin. You're a responsible adult until you've proved otherwise. So I struggle to understand my father killing my flowers (and doing nothing to the thistles I've complained about more than once), struggle to believe he really loves me.
*Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell