Found written in a dusty book is the story of a curse; that was placed upon a son, who went out, and told the world about his daddy being indisposed in a rather unbecoming way. This exposed his father to ridicule and shame. While his other brothers attempted to cover up the shame he exposed his father to, when all came out he was exposed now to. the great shame, the curse. Today we call this act of exposing our parents faults a right, society cheers embraces them. So the family is dysfunctional a new-found right of passage, again parents are ridiculed, as always it is their fault and once again the offender has someone they can blame for the choices they have made. But what is normal what is a dysfunction?
Our family history is not what you may think:
It twists and turns, upon its self it’s tied to our nation’s history and,to our world’s history.
It’s a tree filled with monkeys like you and I, manly apes and others; an odd assortment of eccentric people that are held together by good women for the most part. Our family is made of layers;
Which are real thick, like old dry paint applied through many years, some try to hide the roots of our beginnings, while revealing others less embarrassing moments forget the place forms the future and what is hidden is always uncovered. Yes, from some, we hear this word, Dysfunctional. It makes one shiver, ones skin crawls to hear them blame us all, All of us, who are so different not cut from the cookie cutter mold of what is called the norm. I guess, I am as they say, dysfunctional! I think I may be proud of that, we’ll see.
Our family’s tale it could be yours perhaps it is, is filled with stories, some call lies yes, some exaggerations well yes, some they are embellished by time the teller all to make the story fun but they all are true, yes all contain some facts some simple truths which for the most part make the telling and re-telling with the adding of those bits, a little more not less agreeable and by far more fun. Some of the real facts are blurred from time, it’s the telling however that really counts; we must remember who we are, we learn this from who we were, so who we seek to be is carried on, so each tale reminds us ,that we should never take ourselves too seriously, as it seems today so many do.
One day my pappy when he was eighty-six looked at me and said son never let yourself grow old, smile, enjoy the ride, then when you’re sad just smile a bit more always laugh when you’re in pain this will ease those pains.
One day I looked into my mirror
I found my father staring back at me
Was it he I saw; or was it me
Some how now I was he, my pappy me
Where I walk, he walks too
When I speak he’s there with me
He is now hidden in my memory
My daddy me pappy and me
To be dysfunctional you may well learn: means you’re completely normal.
That it is not a bad thing; perhaps, we should then appreciate what we have.
Perhaps then we should use a better term? Perhaps insanity?
For all the crazy things we do.
Reminder to the wise child: listen to my words my child, take them to heart, then do just as I say, please do not, do as I have done, for I have made all these mistakes, so listen carefully, do not do, as I once did.