Suddenly her consciousness awakens to the sound of her whiny, restless, discontented child. She rolls over and reaches out and rests a hand on the girl’s writhing body – hoping that her touch will penetrate whatever dream or nightmare is causing the torment and soothe the distressed child. Still sleeping, still fussy, she wriggles around, grabbing her mother’s hand, only to push it away.
Resigned to the unconscious rejection, the mother pulls her hand away, noting that her daughter has quieted and appears to be calmly resting once again.
She reconciles herself to wakefulness and glances through the opaque darkness to see the smoldering red numbers on the clock, 4:04. Four hours of sleep. “Of course it’s only been four hours. Whatever. I should be used to it. It’s only been my sleep pattern for the past two and a half decades,” she silently seethes, while her feelings crash and rumble throughout her being.
She feels around above her pillow, seeking her phone. . . No, not phone, mini-handheld computer and artificial appendage.
It’s her gateway to the world, her pathway to being other than who she has been, the main conduit for her self-exploration and self-expression. This little, rectangular gadget contains her visual memories, the graphic record of her self-discovery, and evidence of her increasing capacity for creative self-expression. It has been her safe place to reconnect to herself and learn new ways of being in true relationship with those she loves.
Thank Jobs for the key to unlocking her personal cage door.
She has contributed to the creation of the cage she lives in. The boundaries and limitations are, for the most part, ones she’s chosen either consciously or unconsciously.
“Isn’t it ironic that most of us living in the land of the free and the home of the brave are living lives in our self-imposed cages because we’re afraid of what living free will truly cost?
We fuss and fume, debate and argue over whether we’ve given our governmental leaders too much power to dictate the shoulds and should nots of our lives, when, each and every day, we willingly abdicate personal responsibility for exercising our freedoms and rights, which others bled and died for,” the thoughts flow and gush from her brain.
“We’re only as free as we allow ourselves to be and I’m not free at all,” is her mournful realization.
Then, from the recesses of her caged mind, her spirit lifts up as, somewhere from deep within, she hears the song:
There is a place where my soul seeks refuge
There is a place where my chains release
There is a place where my spirit rejoices
There is a place where my heart’s set free
Freedom, for those who will listen
Freedom, for those who will come
Freedom, for those who accept
The grace and the love, of the Son
There is, Freedom
She drifts back to sleep, a slight, serene, smile on her lips.