No one leaves childhood wound free, no one.

The perfections of innocence do not meld with finitude.

The warm and unitive no self self cocoon shatters, spewing warm salty water into the strange cold world infused with blood and milk. mud and stars, storms and cool breezes, ice shadows and light.

There are only good enough mothers and bad mothers.

Good enough fathers and bad fathers.

Like slabs of stone our creators were carved into forms by their nature and nurture, forms full of finite failings and eternal glories

And then your shaping begins.  Scars are left in the circular growth of your body for reference.

Your wounds are inevitable.  Repeat, your wounds are unique, but inevitable.

Your wounds are priceless, for without them you would not be who you are.  Your essential work, your necessary path. would be totally other.

Some of your wounds are inflicted through ignorance and generational pain from without.  Or someone just forgot to turn the burner off on the stove due to their distractions.

So many wounds are self inflicted.

The result of your heaven given nature adapting to the only home in space and time ever your stork delivered you to… and to the ecosphere you are placed in.  Yes, placed.

Sometimes you are dropped at a home you are not well suited to… think of it as a wrong address.  A wrong address, on purpose.

You can kill the pains in you through soul murder and live as a zombie.

Or you can nurture and treasure your wounds for life.  Feeding them nuts, seeds, strawberries and fine meats.

Nourishing your soul to do the hard and painful work of the breathing who have chosen to live.

Poems, Jean Llanomirth