The Hand That Rocks the Cradle:

There are very few things as helpless and vulnerable as a newborn baby.

A baby comes into this life and the only form of communication it has is a cry when trying to indicate unhappiness or stress.

In the animal world, when humans are not present, the animal that births its baby knows what to do. It is instinctive to feed them, protect them, and finally to teach the young one how to be independent in the world they live in.

With humans, it's not so straightforward because the helpless infant we cradle; the one that knows nothing and looks around and up to another human to guide and love it has no idea how to cope and will die from lack of food and love.

A baby will look at the person that's in their life for nourishment; nourishment of food and drink and love. It will relay its distress in the form of crying and crying is a language, the only language they know.

The hand that rocks the baby's cradle is the one that at that moment in time that has the power of a God in its hands.
If a parent is loving and kind and has very few hang-ups in life, it's expected that the baby will grow into a productive, well-adjusted citizen that can make a meaningful contribution to life and more often than not that is precisely what happens.

If the parent is abusive, racist, and hateful, its rare that the baby will grow up to be the exact opposite unless it is exposed to people that are different from the parent.

The power of nature is such that racism as one example has been able to flourish for centuries based on primarily nurture, not nature factor. Of course, often the baby as a child is exposed to both.

Just imagine what the world would be like if as humans we all knew the immense power we wield and we live consciously enough and have enough love and compassion within us to want to change the world.

We could quite easily change the world to a better one that we inhabit; the one where hate, violence and greed are at the forefront and love and peace is somewhere stuck at the back of the line.

Our world could consist of peace, love and harmony and compassion for those that don't have or are different from us, but there is a fundamental aspect of our human psyche that is not imparted to these vulnerable babies that we could mould into anything much as we do with clay- that is will.

There has to be a willingness to change because without that we simply regurgitate what we have learned from the hand that rocked our cradle and that is then communicated to the next generation.

There is no desire in most humans that are hateful, violent or racist to change the status quo. They revel in the power that this affords them and are eager to impart that to their children.

And so we go around in circles, year after year producing babies that are a type and shadow of us and that we proudly put on display and laugh maliciously when the baby has grown into a toddler and uses racist language, or bullies other children that don't look like them.

And our world, though there are lots of loving, caring parents, evolves and becomes filled with miniature versions of people intent on destruction.

The hand that rocks the cradle, after all, rules the world.

A poem by William Ross Wallace:

Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace.
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mothers first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow —
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission,
Here upon our natal sod;
Keep – oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky —
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.



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Thesna Aston

Thesna Aston

CRT Practitioner, (life requires brave people), Writer @ The Fair Digest, Human Rights Activist, Motivating you (There are enough mean people)Member SahariTHJ