Memoirs of a Child on a Farm

In the tetralogia and wiggledywoo blogs will appear selections from Memoires of a Child on a Farm. Happy, youthful reminiscences with the added bonus of examples of Scottish cookery, which were eaten with great enjoyment.</FONT.

wee me

The life we’re all born into isn’t exactly perfect. But that’s the whole point! If it were perfect, there’d be no reason to be born at all. We’d be Gods, every last one of us, basking in the warm, brilliant, eternal Golden Light. Ta Da! What could possibly follow that?
Here on Earth, in this Universe, as far as we know, there will always be change, which allows for choices to be made, different places to visit, many people to know, amazing events to encounter, including that Golden Eternity, eventually.
What is being born anyway?
Some see it as the direct physiological result of lustful activity between a man and a woman. For others, being born means their spirit has exercised choice, and the soul has returned to this dimension to experience life again in the raw. The last option seems much more interesting; it implies a degree of control, of personal selection, and maybe even imagination.
There’s a catch!
If we came into this world fully formed, conformed and informed, things would go really well. But we didn’t, arriving, after nine months of noisy confinement, stark naked, pulled and pushed out of our private hot sauna and plunked down in what appears to be a hotel foyer, full of bright lights, draughty, and with action going in every which direction. Complaints are ignored, pleas to be allowed to return to the Light are not understood, other people have plans for you, and they’re not going to be put off.


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