The Human Condition of Always Wanting More and Not Seeing What We Have

A patient was waiting in the front area where my desk is this evening and we ended up talking “philosophy” more than we had ever talked with one another before. I’m always amazed at moments like that. Times that seem perfectly designed and dropped into my existence at just the right minute, bringing with it a feeling of "reason" or "purpose". Somehow I’m reminded, gently, to re-evaluate, re-think and re-establish.

Out of the blue this gentleman stated the obvious. “Have you ever noticed we always end up wanting more, even after we get what we thought we wanted? Ya gotta be careful what you wish for and appreciate what you have.” We dissected his statement back and forth for awhile, talking to one another, yet talking out loud (I’m certain) to ourselves. How often do we wish for, chase after, long for, push towards, pull, tug and twist trying to receive something or someone into our realities? Only to find after unwrapping the gift that is given that it doesn’t quite measure up to our expectations? And quite often leaves us emptier than before and once again seeking out the next, and the more perfect thing?

The conversation led me to a memory I have. One I can’t really shake, even though I’ve tried.

For three years I spent hour upon hour with my grandmother who had to be put into a nursing home against her will. I hated that she had to be there. And she reminded me over and over how much she hated it. One day I was particularly tired and she started speaking her familiar loop again. “Everyone I love is gone. Everyone who mattered is dead. They’ve all left me here all alone.” I felt like an invisible six year old, neglected and forgotten. Inside I was screaming, “But I’m here, grandma! Open your eyes and see ME. I matter. I love you. I’m here. I’ve never gone anywhere and I’m standing right beside you.” I would even sometimes give her a gentle nudge to think that direction. “Grandma,” I would say light heartedly, “Look! I’m here! Emaleigh’s here with us! You have so many people who care for you and come and visit you and take care of you.” But no matter how much I reminded or spoke to her, her own Alzheimer’s infected mind couldn’t see what I saw. Couldn’t experience those who surrounded her, who were there holding her hand and sharing her space and time. Present with her in her here and now. I remember talking myself out of being devastated and hurt by her lack of being able to see me for who I was and for what I offered and gave to her.

I’ve decided over the years we spend hours and hours, days and days training our brains how to think and how to connect with our emotions. And unfortunately, so many of us don’t really see. We don’t see the gifts that are right next to us, placed directly in front of us, so close we stumble over them.

I love that the patient at my office reminded me to stop. Breathe. Open my eyes and be thankful for all the people and things that completely enfold me, wrap me up in the arms of life. I would like to be more appreciative and less worried about whether or not I need to keep pouting to try to “get my way”.  Let go, Rhonda. Let go and trust the universe more. Just learn how to be and exist and open up spaces for what I already have that can add to my life the most if I simply take a peek a little deeper inside…

A Portion of Our Brain Power

I was hanging out with my niece last night, watching a movie together. Ended up talking most of the way through it instead.

She’s nine.

And when she was only a toddler her mother committed suicide while my (step) niece and nephew were in the other room. As an adult, I can barely find a way to process that entire situation. I don’t know how to explain it, how to rationalize, how to “be with”, how to accept the reality.

But here was this young child, sometimes seeming years older than she really is, telling me last night something that totally blew me out of the water.

She told me she has decided something and wondered if I wanted to hear.

She started talking about how we all only use ten percent of our brains. And in turn, we only use ten percent of our potential. She believes her mother, free from the restrictions of a human, physical form, a form that only actualizes ten percent of all potential during an eighty year lifespan, is now completely free to use all the potential that ever was and ever could be. Nothing holding her back. So she can give herself to Audrey in a way no one else can. She can do things that Audrey can’t “see” because her mom is “behind the scenes” and working beyond what she could have done trapped and locked in a body that was racked with pain and swallowed by addiction. Her best friend now protects and guides and helps her more than she could have if she were here. She ended her little speech by saying, "I really do think everything happens for a reason. Everything."

I’m impacted hugely every day by the family I’ve been gifted with. Amazed sometimes. Rendered speechless often.