I’m reading “Traveling with Pomegranates” by Sue Monk Kidd. It’s a nonfiction book about her travels with her 22 year old daughter and their changing relationship. There seems to be a strong and binding cord of love between the author and her daughter, as well between the author and her mother. In a strange way, it’s reminding me of the PBS series “Call the Midwife”. We recently watched the first season. It’s set in the East End of London in the years after WWII. Many of the families are very poor, many are also filled with love and I often cried while watching the series. I’m again realizing that I did not have the love of my mother – even as a newborn and infant. On one hand, that’s a very ordinary type of wound that I share with many other humans. On the other hand, for me, it’s a huge scar at the center of my being. I can understand my history more and more and understand my mother and have deeper insight into what happened. I can learn not to treat others badly and unconsciously. I can “heal” my wound to some degree. But, I can’t make it go away – ever. It’s there in my body and soul forever – at least in this human lifetime. I can do my best to live as well as I can and grow “wholer”. But – the wound and the scar tissue over it – are not going to disappear. I can, as psychologists say, learn how to “parent” myself – and that is a good and valuable thing – but the wound will be there. I have to accept that the wound is not going away and I must, in some sense, live around it. I am certainly more than my wound, but it is there always at my center and I must respect it and acknowledge the enormous effect it has had on all areas of my being.