Categories: uncategorized
Date: 09 October 2006 12:06:22
I thought again of the uselessness of words.
Having not slept too well lately I decided I'd take action by imbibing some whisky I'd finally recently been given, and by listening to a few good songs. For a recent birthday some very kind friends made a compilation CD for me of some songs they thought I'd love and some they thought I'd hate (with a picture of a marmite jar on the cover, which still cracks me up). And, sure enough, most of the songs I either hate or love, but not necessarily matching their predictions. One that I think they expected me to hate turned out to be one that really touches me. Firstly it talks of a son's tear-stained face, which is an image the softy I've now become is hugely affected by. (And I'm frustrated that the song offers no explanation of what provoked the tears, but then the writer is under no obligation to give all the details, just like I probably annoyingly leave out lots of details in this blog; this is not the first time I've thought of blogging as an alternative to song-writing). And then it briefly describes a pleasant afternoon out, father and son alone together, where the father tells his son that he loves him. I can so relate to that, and the picture should be a lovely warm and fluffy one. But it's not for me - it's just sad. Because as the tears hint, there is a reason why the father needs to tell the son about his love. The father needs to say it, because he knows his actions don't always communicate the same thing. Just like after I've been the grumpy shouty father I too often am, I coo sweet nothings to my kids to reassure them how much I love them. And which message will last? The unpleasant actions or the kind but oh-so-easily-said words? I have this burning need to tell my kids how much I love them, to even sing sweet songs to them saying the same thing (another song I'm listening to a lot at the moment simply tells a daughter she's 'my favourite girl in all the world'). But that won't do them much good. Who ever looked back on their childhood and said 'my parents were really cruel to me, but they were really great because they kept telling me they loved me lots'? In fact, if they're to gain their independence some time then it seems almost like they need to disregard these statements of affection. Whereas the acts of love will always stay with them and, I think, always be understood as such.
I slept well last night, and tried to put my love into actions not words this morning.