The Original Mom – Before The Lostness
She was beautiful, the spitting image of Lucille Ball, but found herself isolated, uneducated, and raising a sick child in a very small Midwestern town of less than ten thousand people. It was hard getting help being labeled a bad girl, as anyone who did also risked being shamed.
I was born six weeks early, at just over two pounds, and spent my first two months in an incubator. On top of that, for the first two years, I lived in and out of an oxygen tent. She often slept in a chair beside me, and sometimes in a vacant hospital bed, refusing to leave my side.
Some nights, while I wheezed in my bed, she whispered bargains to the ceiling: Please give him breath…
The ceiling never answered back, but the bargain stuck.
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When Content Tells The Cup Who To Be
Somehow, even then, she still showed up, because she could have given in to the pressure of the day and given up on me. Instead, she stayed…
In those early years, she played puzzle games with me, read books, and made our home into its own little school. We had a cat, a goldfish, and an unspoken agreement that pillow fights, and movies and drive-ins, could still make life feel magical.
I’ll never forget the day I came inside and my goldfish was gone. I asked Mom where it went, and she said that the cat had invited my fish for lunch, so I nodded and went back outside to play. It wasn’t until later that evening, when my goldfish hadn’t returned, that I understood what she meant.
But then…
Her mental content took the wheel!
By the time she was twenty-one, the spark had faded. She would not go outside without makeup. She would not let a man touch her unless her legs were shaved. The same woman who once laughed with me, and who was my hero, now edited herself before the world could judge her.
The Original Mom became a mental version of herself, built from shame, bias, and other people’s definitions.
- Her spark dimmed, and her playfulness faded
- She cut herself out of every photo
- The world’s voice grew louder than her own
That’s when she started hiding from the world.
By day she was numb, taking a trip with her new friends Prince Valium, and its sidekicks Darvon and Darvocet, and at night she disappeared into a sex addiction. There were no more pillow fights after that.
She died inside, long before she physically died in her 30s…
… but what if she was taught who she really is, had been hijacked?
What if she understood The Cup Insight?
What if she recognized that the thought, not the thinker, was in charge?
Isn’t that backwards?
As if the coffee (content) inside the cup (the real you), could actually tell the cup who it really is? (ponder on that)
What if she knew we Don’t Look Out Our Eyes, it’s all internal?
Light goes in the eyes, not out. If it did, we wouldn’t need flashlights.
There’s no one inside but us, therefore the problem and solution isn’t what we’ve been told. If she had been taught that, would she have still physically looked for the monster under my bed, or would she have seen my fear of the monster as a belief I believed was true, and that belief caused my fear?
Would she have seen her monster wasn’t who she really is, just ideas she was taught to believe, using feelings as proof they’re true. Like believing there must be a Santa, because someone ate the cookies. (ponder on that)
See the innocence, before the lostness took place…
What if right now you intentionally wink an eye, recognizing that you, The Original You (cup), just did that. And that every other time that eye was being winked, wasn’t you, but instead was the belief-based, mentally-created, habitual-and-emotional version of you, who winked it (content).
We just never know what the day will bring, do we…?
Because today brought you, back to you.
(smile)
