A pocket full of posies 

I’ve been called an “old soul” most of my life. I don’t believe in past lives but I’ve been told that I’ve lived many. I remember my thoughts as a child seemed advanced.

One specific thought was realizing when I was very little, that someday I would be old, and I need to try to enjoy being a child while I could. Knowing that some of the kids in my third grade class (no one specific) would end up getting involved in drugs and alcohol even though we were chanting as a class against it.

I was very aware of my own mortality. I hemorrhaged blood from my throat for a week after a tonsillectomy. I specifically remember throwing up pure blood into a crystal salad bowl, I was to weak to lean over the toilet. I remember the smell and the taste of metal and how cold I was.

My mother took me to the hospital nearly every day just to be told that the bleeding was normal. She got fed up and took me to a different hospital. Immediately in the waiting area they put me to sleep and rushed me into emergency surgery. I wasn’t scared, I was happy that I could finally close my eyes.

I believe that experience developed my understanding of kindness and compassion toward other people’s pain. To be kind means that I leave a beautiful part of myself that can be past on from person to person even after my body is gone. Death can not keep that part of me.

I was aware of the future. Aware that there were thousands of paths that the people in my life could take. I knew, based on what parents and teachers warned us about that no matter how hard they tried, some of us would fall. We would make the wrong or immoral decision. So I tried to enjoy the short time of innocence with the individuals that would enter my childhood. Knowing it wasn’t forever. Knowing it would change.

I’ve been reflecting on my childhood lately. I’m sure I’m not the only one with these thoughts and feelings. Anyway,  I’m tired. Good night my lovies.

Xo Mandy

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