Learning from Jessica

     Turns out Jessica is a key player. When I guessed that she was Little Jessica she had one correction to make. I could call myself Big Jessica if I wanted to but she was JESSICA. Period.
     Here she is with her doll Cynthia and my brother Ted. When I think of "my" little ones, there are three younger and at least three older who could qualify as young (13 and under) but she is a fully-developed personality, not a fragment, with a decided world view and influence on the system as a whole.
     She explained it to me one day, drawing two pie charts. "Here's how you see us. You think you're the main one." She drew the percentage of my share of the pie as about 5/6 of the whole with the rest of the inside people crowding into the remaining sixth.
     Then she said, "This is how it really is" and drew a pie with herself occupying about 3/5. My slice of consciousness and influence was about 1/8.

   
     Then she listed our differing perspectives. I see her (she claimed) as always depressed and crying, feeling inadequate and unworthy, et cetera, et cetera. She sees me as self-confident to the point of cockiness, too busy, over-committing--"and then when the deadline comes, you leave us to do the things you promised to do." I'm impatient with the rest of us, riding roughshod over them, irked by their non-cooperation.
     In short, she said, "You are Walks-on-Water. I am All-About-Survival."
     Wow. That was sobering--for awhile. I tried to make more time for them, pay attention to their needs, spend time doing things with them that they enjoy. We watched hummingbirds, took pictures of them, made an album. We read Winnie-the-Pooh pop-up books and Little Red Hen and Little House on the Prairie. For awhile. But periodically I take the bit in my teeth and I'm off running again, saving the world and forgetting all about them, getting out of earshot. Like a carriage drawn by six horses, one shooting out front, others standing still or digging in their hooves, we end up in a tangle of fallen bodies, the whites of terrified eyes, twisted legs, reins, sweat, and saliva. Somebody always gets hurt.
     "Stay close to me," I say. "Let me know what you want. Stop me if I'm getting too far ahead."
     "You scare us. And you don't listen. What's the use of trying to get your attention? You'll do what you want anyway."
     The trouble is, they're right. I have to pull way back and take them into consideration.
     Though broken, we're really one person. We have to move ahead (or not) as a team.