Posted in Musings, Random

A quality insight from Mrs. Fish

β€” Read on

There are always as many layers in each piece written by Daniel Paul Marshall as there are to our individual psyches. I have learned, from past experience, we decide to dig when all of life fails. Most assuredly when we struggle in amazement, “How did we end up here?”

This struggle’s search means we roam our own minds along with perusing other’s insights, to answer personal questions. Daniel Paul Marshall always becomes a mountain to scale. I am not afraid to climb and quite often like to feel small. The idea of being intellectually swallowed hole is not frightening. At such a time, i tend to be lazy and will shift into making the ascent easy as possible. I have found in order to be a PhD candidate poet, i would need to tap reserves that currently are kept safe for rainy days. I never venture far from the comfortable. (Enough of that tangent… back on the original road!)

This particular post drug me up from a pit i am well accustomed. I routinely, lazily graze in my despair but in a rare collision, this post brought a flurry of thought.

Please consider bringing yourself to the discussion at the original post. I would love to read your thoughts. Does this post enlighten or further blur your perception of you, your children and the space between? Or perhaps your relationship with a parent?

I am considering note-taking and producing a futures map, dealing with my daughter. She tells me i am her best friend, which makes me feel wonderful. But below the surface smile i sprout for her benefit, i fear her future. Where are people to love her as much as i?

11 thoughts on “A quality insight from Mrs. Fish

    1. Yes, Raggedy… I understand the feeling. It is awful to walk through it. A storm of torrential heart ache. I am happy you have support. To walk through it alone, horrendous.

      I will be sure to comment more on your blog. I honestly feel apprehensive to comment…. but i felt raggedy myself, reading that post. We give our best and then give more. Our children are mirrors of secret desires we rarely confess. πŸ•ŠπŸŒˆπŸŒž

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Love your description of our children. They don’t realize they are an extension of us. When they hurt, we hurt. Why would you be apprehensive to comments on my blog? Always feel free to add your thoughts. Have a good one.

        Liked by 2 people

      2. If I remember correctly, someone introduced you to my blog, said all these nice things about me, and soon after this turned cold against me and i felt terrible. Perhaps something was happening in her life i am unaware and she wanted to cut ties? Or did i say something to make her flee me? She commented religiously on my posts and i always answered back… started commenting on her posts, to give back what she lavishly gave me, and became offended or something. Really not sure… but it left a sour taste in my mouth and my heart was broken. Words are often misinterpreted via email, text, blogging… it has been two or three years since, and the incident bothers me off and on… often triggered by my thoughts to comment. Second guessing every word… as if i would know something would tick someone off. I dont know much about anyone here…

        I guess there is a fine line between becoming too involved with others on WP, too emotionally connected…

        Liked by 1 person

      3. I was searching for this reply from you. I had lost it in my computer. Don’t remember how I came across your blog. Perhaps it was an introduction. People are funny nowadays. I have made some wonderful connections here in blogworld. Then, some people I thought were friends for life, turned their backs on me as my romance with Nandita came to light.
        So, I hope you don’t dwell on what happened with your friend. You are a sweet person and lovely writer. Like you say she may have misinterpreted a comment. The connections here in WP are no different than our connections in everyday life. Some are truly solid and others are fickle. Sometimes it is best to not get too emotionally connected.
        Sorry for the late response. I will be here to read you. Wish you all the best. Stat inspired.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. Im happy somebody sees the real me. Another blogger, who will forever remain anonymous in my heart and mind, accuses me of being some lady i hardly recognize! πŸ˜‚ Have a good day!!! I was remembering about a post you had written, i commented and said i would reply back… time took the reigns and threw me off course… and being the unorganized creative, i cannot find my notes or the post… and you probably have already forgotten, so this point i make is mute. Ahhhhh, i talk too much. Any how, if i some how find it, because i become deliberate in my pursuit to understand, which i promised i would be this year, i shall reply and post on my blog. Hope this monologue/dialogue is not too confusing…

      Most importantly, live life well… πŸ’œπŸ•ŠπŸŽΆπŸŽΆj


      1. O I wouldn’t say I see the real you. I am happy if I wrote something that helped you hold see round a corner of yourself, but I don’t know if I see anyone, I find people very hard to read. This is why my essays proceed from literature or poetry, it is ok to get them wrong but not people & if the piece holds up a mirror, that’s brilliant, more than I could hope for.
        I don’t remember a previous post you promised to return to. You said you’d come back to this one you did & have. Godd enough for me. We all have lives.
        If you find or recall what you were meant to comment on, please do so. I always respond & I am always pleased to return to posts. I put a lot of time into things nice for any renewed interest.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Of all the posts i read, yours typically swim in my thoughts long after i have read them. One, because they stir the soup that swishes in my head. And two, the waves are never calm. πŸ‘πŸΌ i do like to think deep when afforded the chance… life does creep in, often without a courteous knock. And i am obliged to listen, whether i want to or not. πŸ’œπŸ•ŠπŸŽΆπŸŽΆπŸŽΆ


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