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Susan Hyatt's avatar

When I see the world as myself, paying attention particularly to the chaos, it seems those parts of me are crying out to be seen and heard, like an ignored child who finally resorts to breaking things, starved for attention. When my own similar inner voices are heard, without any reaction except to love them like a mother, they fade, eventually to become silent, disappearing contentedly, integrated perhaps.

In contrast to this, when I pay attention to the beauty in the world, and in myself, it seems to multiply. The butterfly seen and admired becomes many butterflies.

Is this an appropriate interpretation of some of your words in this essay?

If so, it seems the world needs more mothering, though not an overprotective-mother, but more of a mother who has a quiet presence. Does this kind of love dissolve the illusion of separation, even if only for a moment, when given to others?

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