Which is it? Do we choose our parents or don’t we? And if we don’t pick our family do they pick us? 

From where I sit, it doesn’t matter. I’m older now. Looking back on the proverbial years of my youth I can still hear the anger and the rebellion. To make sense of it all my mind tells me I was taken from the wrong family at the hospital. But even if I truly were someone else’s child, did I end up here as my own karmic contribution to right a past retribution?

Even now as I practice the art of being the detached observer, I can’t stop myself from wondering, what’s the point? 

I won’t get to confront the accusers who blamed me for coming into this life. And no one ever seemed to know the truth so my theories of a karmic childhood seem to leave me predisposed. 

I was always stuck in the middle of it. That has to account for something. It must be significant in some way. I always recognized my soul as old. Many lifetimes of mishaps and misdemeanors just hungry for attention. Growing up too fast had nothing to do with it. In childhood the gifts were a burden and neglected. But thank God the Archangels don’t give up and as the light reaches through you, the darkness dissipates.

My rants shall hopefully bring me closer to the more detailed interpretations of where the past meets the future.

What is your life saying to you?