Mismatched

We live in a mismatched world. The miracle is that we survive in it. From the moment that we take our first breath we are struggling with dissonance. The womb is even a cramped and limiting place, however cozy. When we are launched we slide into the world tangled up in our umbilical cord. Slapped into consciousness we are passed into the arms of the one who claims us as hers. Is it a match? Is she a home or a way station on the way to real love. Does the mother feel love or amazement? One would like to think it is love. From then on it is a scramble to survive with every nerve alert to the danger of not enough. Not enough food. Not enough warmth. Not enough light. Too much light. Alone and helpless we can't even think of anything. An enormous urge to live after having vegetated for nine months in paradise (sort of).
Yes, we are mismatched, most of us, and it is our burden to find a way to adjust to the world we come into that is narrow and inflexible from day one. From childhood to adulthood the mismatch turns up again and again. Parents, playmates, schools, work, friends and lovers, all lack something essential that we seek and can say are mismatches. The 'not enough' syndome turns up again. Not enough money. Not enough time. Not enough this and that. So we adapt and adapt and adapt until we find a compromise match. A place in the world. A person or persons we can tolerate. A situation we can live with. Ways to spend our supply of affection or love, not sure if it is a mutual and sometimes finding out it was a fool's errand and must start over. And so it goes. Mismatched in an imperfect world we learn to live with the disappointment or wear ourselves out seeking perfections in people, places, things, achievement, and money. There is only one perfect match. Her name is Love. Her face is hard to pick out in a crowd, but she only has eyes for you.