The Beacon of Childhood

For the first half of my life, my story was that my parents had failed me. Then the story changed. The narrative of my life, one which I told others, and most especially told and re-told myself, gave form and meaning to my motivations, my fears and my hopes, my struggles and triumphs. The story shaped my responses to the difficulties I confronted, leading to resilience and healing, or stuckness with part of my life energy withheld. Someone else looking at my life, possibly from within my own family, might have a completely different take, possibly an insightful take, but of course they haven’t lived in my shoes.

I am reminded of the brilliant Japanese movie, Rashomon, which tells the story of a violent crime from different eyewitness perspectives, culminating in a story which upends the narratives of all the others. I won’t ruin the outcome for you in case you decide to see this widely acclaimed award-winning Kurosawa film, but I do recommend it highly, not only for its artistry but for its truth.

Are things ever the way we imagine them? I myself have great confidence in my judgements and yet readily admit to have been wrong on several occasions, proven ignorant of the fuller picture. As I age I have become less attached to the value of my opinion. I have an opinion, but other viewpoints are welcome.

We define ourselves in accordance with our origin stories. All beginnings are formative. This holds true whether we arose from toxic environments or happy childhoods. Think of our country, the United States. 250 years after our founding we are still fighting the same battles–states’ rights and the sin of slavery, for example. These conundrums have never gone away. They appear and reappear in varying degrees of intensity, throughout our lives and the life of the nation.

As we mature, our stories often evolve. In my own case I would say that every decade or so, my perspective changed.

I was the youngest of three, the only girl. I saw myself, unsurprisingly, as the center of the universe. I believed I was acted upon, often unfairly in my view, by my parents and my two older brothers. The injustice of my situation stood out in my memory as I grew.

I was well cared for, physically—clothed, fed, given an education—but as a privileged child I gave scant consideration to the blessed environment my parents had managed to cultivate for me. My parents had great hopes for my success, but they were not very good at the emotional parts of life. In those post-war, post-Depression days, emotional well-being was not emphasized. They’d been hard-working children of immigrants who’d fled the deprivations of their birth countries and faced the difficulties of becoming established in a new land. In the face of all that, their focusing on the emotional aspects of life was likely a luxury they could ill afford.

As the decades advanced, my story shifted. Still pained by emotional neglect, I cultivated that outrage even as I cultivated a new life.

But then I had my own family. Trying to satisfy the needs of a child in addition to my own needs and ambitions, turned out not to be easy. Providing materially for a child limited my own choices and channeled my own needs into doing what was necessary. In recognizing this, I grew kinder and more understanding to the humans who had raised me and developed an appreciation of the sacrifices they had made.

Then, in my later years, I came to see my background as a gift. My mother’s emotional distance served to prepare me for the path I had chosen, which was not a mainstream path, and didn’t get much support. The growth of consciousness that I was after required discipline and commitment over time. I had to have the will and willingness to live apart so as to avoid going along to get along. My father’s disappointment with his life was shaped by his “duty” as provider. He fell short, in his own view, to integrating his love of God and his philanthropy with the demands of supporting a family. He was sad. Nevertheless, his efforts– his unrewarded commitment—had in fact become a beacon for me. As Jung has pointed out, we live out the unlived life of our parents.

So now I feel gratitude and awe and amazement at the gift of my life, but also sadness for being an ass in my younger years toward them and not recognizing what they had done for me. But— now that I’ve come to contend with my own imperfections and mistakes with my own family— I can’t quite ride the high-horse.

Now that I am old, I can say that my story and my path are integrated. My origins form the foundation of my becoming; I have steadily climbed a ladder toward the consciousness I yearned to inhabit. I’m at one with my origins, but also detached from them. I can give them their due and still move beyond them. I know that the way I approach my life is not unique. I’ve basically taken what’s happened to me as a lesson plan because I believe our lives are our own particular customized lesson plan. I try to learn even from the bad stuff. I’ve learned to live more graciously with difficulties and loss, while still maintaining the capacity for joy and wonder.

The wisdom of old age appears to be the recognition that we understand nothing or perhaps I should speak in first person: I understand nothing. We are all mysteries to ourselves and to each other, even parents and children when living for years in the same household, and long married spouses. I am mystified by the behavior of my fellow creatures and the apparent carelessness with which some have approached their lives, their loves, and the things that sustain them, including the Earth and the animating Divine Presence.

For myself, now that all the blustering has calmed down, I can say that I largely achieved what I set out to do, and remained committed to the work that enables me to live more free and to be a beneficiary and dispenser of compassion.

At the end of the day, we are flawed and vulnerable creatures who are ennobled and healed not so much by our understanding (some things are incomprehensible) but by our ability to love–despite the hardships we endure.

©2026 Shulamit Elson