The Silence, by Odilon Redon Ageing people ramble on the same old souvenirs, just too much.
You grow weary of those yarns well known: old wins, defeats of the yesterday, things they liked so much or those they said “no!” to. Old mistakes they keep explaining away. This is silly! Why on earth do they tire us? We have things to do, we live today.
Well, give a thought to this: The old, recite those anecdotes gone by because they are made of them.
Identity is made of memory. They speak to recall themselves who they are because they feel with terror that they are about to forget who they are.
This is urgent, life or death! The past fades away, it must be re-told, validated, reaffirmed, to remember their self, to ceaselessly rebuild it. We all live this permanent “individuation” unawares, but they, the waning, must use the few stones left to re-build – that poor litany of memories.
You are certain to kill your old parents simply by not allowing them to speak: by telling them that you did hear this already, you know, yes, you know, this is boring; by making them feel cold or showing how ridiculous they are. Or just cutting in, not listening, so that at last they become silent. They do, and soon enough they forget, then forget even what they forgot and forget themselves, wither and die out...
As it happens, marriage dies in the same way.
Identity is made of memory. They speak to recall themselves who they are because they feel with terror that they are about to forget who they are.
This is urgent, life or death! The past fades away, it must be re-told, validated, reaffirmed, to remember their self, to ceaselessly rebuild it. We all live this permanent “individuation” unawares, but they, the waning, must use the few stones left to re-build – that poor litany of memories.
You are certain to kill your old parents simply by not allowing them to speak: by telling them that you did hear this already, you know, yes, you know, this is boring; by making them feel cold or showing how ridiculous they are. Or just cutting in, not listening, so that at last they become silent. They do, and soon enough they forget, then forget even what they forgot and forget themselves, wither and die out...
As it happens, marriage dies in the same way.
What does it cost you then to listen one thousand times to the same old story, like night falling every evening, like eating our daily bread and drinking water?
*
A drop of patience, of mercy, forgiving our parents their weaknesses, as we will need our children to forgive ours. Hodie mihi cras tibi.*
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*Today me, tomorrow it is your turn.
*
A drop of patience, of mercy, forgiving our parents their weaknesses, as we will need our children to forgive ours. Hodie mihi cras tibi.*
________________________
*Today me, tomorrow it is your turn.
Hodie mihi cras tibi (CC BY-SA 3.0) Xauxa Håkan Svensson 2009
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