It still surprises me, even though by now I suppose it shouldn’t, that caring about someone, wanting the best for them, comes with the pain of not always being able to stop their own agonies.
From the moment my son was born, there has been a small, glorious pain deep inside. From the first touch it was ignited. And it has glowed, and flared, and blazed ever since.
For most of the time, whilst he was growing up, when he was in sight it was small and tight. When he was out of sight, a little fiercer, a little hotter, a waiting for confirmation of safety, security and contentment.
His emotional roller coasters saw flames, flares and explosions. His growth into the man he is has seen a warm blaze. But every day, the small glorious pain is there. And I am glad.
What is interesting is that there are other fires, other burning coals of the pain of caring. Beyond those of family, and even those for parents gone that do not disappear completely.
From time to time, and mainly in the last few years, I have acquired new nuggets of pain. And each one has made my life broader, deeper, more conscious, more aware.
It may be that it has accompanied my descent into an emotional mess, crying at anything and everything – do not show me ‘The Good Life’ in public – but each new and distinct pain that I gave gained has added so much to my life.
Don’t get the wrong idea. I am not a masochist. Neither am I a sadist who relishes seeing those I care about suffer. Each time I see them upset, unhappy, disoriented, I feel their pain with mine. Theirs for the situation, mine for the inability to resolve it for them.
But being a part of the pain means being a part of a life, and that will always be worth the collateral. And the good, and happy, and joyous also brings a pain. One that lifts and fills and overflows.
I am blessed with all the pain that I feel, for all the people I love. And I bless each day I can feel it.
Love hurts. Life Hurts. Love is good. Life is good. Pain is good.
Except watching Bristol Rugby. That is too much pain!
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