Times I open my wordpress to find the words ‘are you human?’ Times I go … bloody robot, and then times I think … totally monsieur. Thank you very much. Times I wonder and times I don’t give myself enough credit for being just that, human.
Waffly stuff. The thing is. The thing is.
When life goes super swimmingly, we hardly stop to do the deep philosophical delving thing. You know the one where we question and despair and bring out the cat-o-nine-tails to beat ourselves still further in the wallowing pool? When life goes swimmingly, it’s all blossoms and sunshine – like when we are passionately in love. Then we love the other and find no fault, and we rather think ourselves grand too. Nothing like being in love to blood rush going and let’s face it, being loved is the best medicine in the world. Being loved makes us feel perfect.
And then, when we have the black dogs circling our hearts, we take ourselves apart. Compare ourselves to all around and find ourselves wanting. We are no longer perfect but the hag with warts and toads for company. We doubt, question, lament and flay ourselves for falling short; love has moved next door. We allow ourselves to be tortured and worse, we torture ourselves.
Ever noticed that when we feel so down, life goes grey, and everything goes wrong? Sad scenes in the movies rip into us, a minute late is chaos, work is hideous and if you are like me, rather than lose weight, weight is the only thing that adds up. Global problems are manifest as personal, oh, the list is endless and the light is dim. Like winter. And then, and then, when asked ‘are you human?’ that chink, that glimmer breaks through the damp wall. Of course you are! Yay! Thanks for the reminder. Life becomes rather splendid. All of it.
Which is exactly why we step, totter and fall. Do different things and take responsibility for our lives, good or bad, but it is who we are. Other may not agree, judge and frown like the Senate, but I want to tell you … trying to be perfect, is exhausting. Being human, is interesting. I opt for interesting any day. If I broke the rules, hurt and judged, being human is also being able to say ‘I’m sorry’. I will do better tomorrow. Promise. We have the erasers to begin again.
But love me for being human, and more importantly, I must love myself for being so. Times we feel unloved and the blossoms fall from the trees, but that is also part of the journey, and our story. Then love pops up and feeling perfect is gorgeous. Then being human is a level of perfection, on our own terms. Then the pencil is ready for the drawing of a new scene.
Robots cannot love. We can and that makes all the difference.