To: K-list
Recieved: 1999/11/30 16:56
Subject: Re: [K-list] Re: kundalini-digest V1 #477
From: Wim Borsboom
On 1999/11/30 16:56, Wim Borsboom posted thus to the K-list:
Dear Zala,
How nice that you had first Steve and then Dor respond to your post about
the great food debate. Steve's reply so humorous, how could I improve on it,
the other (dor's) so balanced. You lucky you...
You could have gotten a response from me, don't know what that would have
been like... Just call yourself lucky again.
Anyway now that we have made contact, I may as well carry on. I remember in
one of your posts you used the word compassion and I thought, "Hey, here is
the person I will direct my story of compassion to."
Let's see how I can start it of.
Yes that great food debate, '-isms' that lead to schisms.
We are so goddamned (I'm using the word on purpose so do not get offended)
spoiled nowadays. What luxury that we can actually fight about our options
about what to eat and what not. My mother used to say, "Just be glad there
is something on your plate, when I was young during the depression....."
Reminds me of another debate, "Should your 'poo-mass' float or sink when
you have deposited it in the toilet bowl." My mother used to say, "Just be
glad that you've got something to let go of. When I was young just after the
first world war......" In Dutch it sounds way nicer of course and more to
the point, "Wees blij dat je iets te poepen hebt,..... ......"
Or the other debate about toilet paper, how it should come of the roll. My
mother used to say, "Just be glad that you have something to wipe your
bottom with and that you have something to wipe off. When you were just a
baby, during the war...."
But I guess, those stupid and unresolvable debates will always be with us.
My mother used to sa...
Yes, during the war, (I was born during the hunger winter in Holland in
1944) before I hardly had a chance to have a bowel movement, I had already
one of those intestinal, in those days often fatal diseases 'diphtheria'.
In fact I always remembered snippets of what happened. I am quickly and
panicky swaddled up and put into one of those old-fashioned prams, biggish
wheels, rubberized cloth, dinky musty smell. My mom rushing over a sand path
pushing the pram towards a war sanatorium. Her face close to mine, cold
clammy cheeks, warm wettish breath, my mom's specific smell. It must be
early spring in Holland, the sand path has trees on both sides and I see
some kind of leafy tunnel-like corridor above us. I must have been just one
year old. Next instant I am hovering over the pram and I see my mom rushing
and pushing, a determined face, a reddish shawl around her hair. Strong
faith beaming off her, that I will be OK. Strange memories that only later
made sense, tile floors, tiled bathrooms with immense amounts of water
spouting from unexpected places. A windowed sanatorium wing. Almost empty,
just many springy bed, bedding, cold and glassy. I'm waking up now, I'm in
this big metal bed frame. I see a beautiful round gleaming face, golden
rimmed spectacles, smooth chin, orangy red cheeks. It looks like it is early
in the morning, the light greyishly coming through the glass wall, glass
ceiling even. I'm in a bed that is way big and I'm tied in it seems. This
man with this beautiful face unties me and picks me up, this little bundle
that is just about doing OK now. He loves me, he wants to kiss me, no he
does not, he holds me away from him he examines and judges. His loving face
becomes neutral, functional. I remember some memory flashes coming off him,
and a hope and a yearning. He is unswaddling me, his love for me is trying
him, there is some pain. He wished he could keep me alive, how I am like his
boy far away. No, I am only a link to his memory. He holds me a way again,
hurt on his face, the love for me has gone, he is disgusted with himself,
"Ich bin ..." He throws me down into the tube metal bed, "ein kinder..." I
don't get the end of that strange string of words, the last inflection lost
forever. The tail end of an uncomfortable melody not sung... or wept....
Always wondered what this strange man was. He was love...? He was death
almost.
It is about 3 years ago now, I am 52. I am going through early childhood
memories. Bits and pieces of tangled visionary flashes, dreams, memories,
nightmares, fantasies, that my healing process seems float up to the surface
of my daily awareness, to untie, unravel and tie up again, link the proper
links, fill in the missing pieces. I remember more now...
I am at the breakfast table now, doing my usual morning ' Kundalini report'
to my wife and son (he is 19, he understands me so well.) Every day in this
process is totally new, a new page gets unfolded from the story of my life.
Every day gaps are filled in, this depression (un-pression really) is now
clearing the repressions. I am enthusiastically recounting my story, some
gory details. This is so clarifying for me..., for my wife it is another one
of those terrifying memories that I seem to dish up daily. My son takes it
in stride, my wife thinks, "Will this ever stop?" Then I tell them again of
this lovely German face, the face of that unfeeling (?)man. My mother knew
him well. I tell my wife that I understand this man, I was another last
chance for love instead of destruction. His love I will always remember and
relish, so real that love is, so beautiful his face. His yearning I will
always remember, his rejection I will not forget, this man's function
discard, discard, discard. Who was he really? At that moment I see his face
just to the right of my wife's head, he is zooming into me so quickly. He
wants to kiss me, for real now , I ask him, "Kiss me, cuddle me, this nice
little heap of love and hope and memory of your son. I understand you, I
love you. I am alove and alive." I embrace him now, tears down my cheeks,
His love so real and timeless, his rejection so illusory and only a memory.
I have not dreamt of this man since, I see a lot of faces now which exude
that love... The face of love...
Is this compassion?
Please, feel no pity for me the poor little child, that was so tragically
treated by this man. Pity and tearless sorrow for me 'the little poor child'
made me hate, wanting to forget and repress, denial eventually. Please have
no hatred for this man who was a slave of illusion until he came to face me
again in love.
Love, Wim
Zala wrote:
> Do you tolerate murderers as well
David Bozzi wrote:
Compassion & tolerance has nothing to do with an object. One simply has the
capacity
to be compassionate or not. But for someone who is small minded, that person
may find the
need to attach limits and conditions on something that is ultimately
limitless.
DISCLAIMER!
Home | Archive Index | Search the archives | Subscribe
K. List FAQ | Kundalini FAQs | Signs and Symptoms | Awakening Experiences | K. list Polls | Member Essays | Meditations | List Topics | Art Gallery | Cybrary | Sitemap | Email the moderators.
symbol.