View of Entangled Seaweed and the Growing Up of Our Children

We live in an ocean. It is rough and boisterous with fearful frosty waves on the surface at times. There are white pearls and pieces of eight 제주독채민박 sitting at the bottom. Hovering above the deeps at all times waiting are the sharks. How you explore your world will determine what it means to you; that is if fate doesn’t screw up the process. Or maybe fate should hinder the process, a wrench in the works that keeps things interesting. Our feeble efforts conjugated with omnipotent fate could be just the mix we need; but how often in real life does this happen? Our lovely indulgences are shattered all of a sudden by reality, the world we live in.

Our ears screech. It is shriller than even the most dreadful sound. A rocket smashes into your dreams, and life fills your mind like a wave crushing pure timbre. Panic over-fills you, and even your overworked mind can only guess at the source of this irritation. It is your baby stumbling down the stairs as you look up in horror.

What startles you is a vision of a small face filled with frights of its own. No words come between you; he just takes your hand and grips it tight, panting. Strange, but you don’t know why. And then after all the consoling your child speaks. His too broken words come with ordinary hiccups; it’s hard to make sense of such confused eyes. But fear resides as you squeeze him tight. The whole incident is shoved into the bubbling water of experiences.

Life is an oceanic stream that pulls us in if we are willing to fly our nest to search for food. We skate on the surface of our sun-kissed sea; we plunge into green weeds that hide us in what we hope are the depths of protection. In the winter you straddle a beach’s rocky shore; you lie in comfortable warmth, burying your naked head in the sand. What you see as the extreme depths of your sexuality, are to her the shallow shore where red crabs feed and crawl. White waves are your stirring froth of hope, but time sees your hope turned to a soured milk of guilt as she smashes you against a wall.

We do love our white pearls. As children we tremble, only ankle-deep at the tiniest of rippling waves. We roar much later as we feel our strength as young parents. We are invincible as we raise our own little brood. Then we find out the brood hates us. We made mistakes they will never repeat. We told lies only they could see. We walk among the witnesses of our failures, from knee-high to twenty-one. We hope as they grow older they will forgive our mistakes. What was ours rejects us, and disowned we learn patience from the regret that hurts us inside.

The white pearls of our relationships are restored to their beauty over turkey dinner. Traditional prayers heal the jointed spirits where hand meets hand. As we learn patience we hurt inside. The passing of a ribbon wrapped gift does much healing if given on that special day. Healing among family members is at once difficult and harsh.

Gene sequences en-wrap themselves around blatant differences. A like flowing blood heals the gaps that separate pulsing cauterized arteries. The sociopath wonders at why sons achieve manhood in rebellion and then forgive. Unlike her their battles are complete.

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