Trundling along in my little creaky wheelbarrow, rust flakes falling off and blowing away in the gentle breeze as my vessel bumps and bounces on the rocky road, I have been the fortunate recipient of such wonderful support that I often shake my head in disbelief. I do not deserve this love, respect and regard. I do not even see some of these amazing friends often at all, as they either live far away, or in different countries. They ask nothing of me, not even my company, and I stand in awe and wonderment at this almost surreal existence.
When one is in dire need – a need born from chasing a path, walking a journey of unique Beingness, of becoming, and inner homecoming, that inexorable forging – and crucial help is offered by a friend, does it not make the friend more valuable than blood ties that would rather see one fail and derive twisted delight in finger wagging and head shaking?
What is family, after all? The conceptual family, the community of unquestioning support, people who rally round to aid and abet your quest towards Self, who never demand that you obey the dictates of Other, who do not put an exchange rate upon their currency of friendship – or people who share a common set of DNA sequences, who mock and deride the very core of your existence, and measure your worth according to your adherence to their set of references, their frames that contain who they decide you must be?