Often, I sit on the cold, honey-pine floor and watch the sun rise through an east-facing window. Just outside, all manner of avian life take turn after impatient turn, relieving the feeders.
I mull over the experiences my parents must of had at my age, and marvel at the vastness of knowledge they didn’t have direct access too. You see, I hunger for knowledge. I crave it. Like one might describe a ‘mid-night snack’, the slice of chocolate cake is so much tastier at an unreasonable hour.
I too craved knowledge at ‘unreasonable’ times. Times where being ‘seen and not heard’ was the gold standard of children. I was such a child, and I was so much more than silence could tolerate.
Today, I recognize knowledge as, at best, half of the equation. You see, knowledge can be lacking. The amount of inaccurate knowledge that came from within my family is staggering, even debilitating.
On the contrary, much of what I say is said not in reference to a scientific journal I read, a fascinating piece of archaeological news, or even a recent download on the subject of Parentification.
Time. I say it with my fucking time. People greatly confuse the state of “knowing” and that of “believing”. Nor have they created their own systems for verifying knowledge (or data), and finally, they have little desire to be incorrect- the nail in the proverbial coffin.
Love for those close to me is not dependent on their knowledge base, belief systems, or times proven correct.
What I do value I cherish and I honor that whole-heartedly with
my
mother-fucking
time.