The Consequence of Sequences: A Mother’s Day Meditation

The other day, after a short debrief on my recent ground-sliding/kissing incident (which I, quite reasonably, blamed on tripping over another dimension’s guilty Leprechaun), my daughter exclaimed, “Mother, how on earth did you not think of the consequences?” (These aftereffects of roaming a dust devil-filled thrift shop.)
I answered her calmly, “I have never considered consequences; those are for other people?…” I could hear her eyes rolling!
But perhaps, in a world where the abnormal is the new normal, the refusal to reckon with consequences is less a quirk and more a collective affliction (am I becoming normal?!)

Later, the word stuck with me. Consequences. Sequences. Suddenly, eureka: consequences contain sequences- those sci-fi threads of coherence we all pretend to follow.

Today,(yesterday) during the national silence of 4 Mei, I am reminded how powerful consequences and sequence shape our collective memory. As a young girl, I watched the rows of cars come to a halt and felt the city’s energy quieten as everyone observed those two minutes of reflection. That hush was more than a pause; it was the living consequence of history, a sequence repeated year after year so we do not forget. In that stillness, we acknowledge not only the losses of the past but also how each generation inherits both the burdens and hopes that follow. The silence of Remembrance Day is a poignant reminder that peace is not an accident but the result of choices and actions-consequences and sequences echoing through time.

Bear with me: how on earth did I miss the shameless World Liberty Fund and its trumpets? I read global politics newsletters from every corner of the ocean and the seven seas. Yet, somehow, I overlooked the leader of a nation with $36 trillion in debt selling his own coin act that would make the ancient barterers of Mesopotamia blush. Is this not the ultimate ritual of late-stage capitalism, where value is conjured and consumed in the same breath?

I might seem naive, but this economy, in the same breath, this value butcher must eventually meet his own tripping string-dimension sequence. If I had to hazard a polite guess, it would be shaped like a yarmulke. Then again, the holy hook would fish him out, as he seems to have that one where the sun refuses to shine.

On a more serious note, Mother’s Day in Spain passes without fanfare, church bells or fireworks, while invented saints and miraculous births command the parade. Our rituals, it seems, are less about honouring reality than sustaining the myths that keep us marching.
Strange, we live in a strange world indeed, but everything depends on the colour of the glasses you observe it with.

Today, I’m smitten with the fact that “The Velvet Divorce” (Villa Tugendhat) hasn’t had a sequel. Perhaps what we really need is less bombast and more bass, maybe a little Skrillex with the vibes of Damian Marley, and just 2% Electric Avenue, enough to chill like Seth Rogen and keep the peace.

In a world obsessed with consequence and sequence, perhaps the only honest position is to acknowledge the fragility of all our constructions, be they of glass, ideology, or code.
The real apex isn’t a summit of control but a fleeting moment of clarity: seeing, even for an instant, the swirling chaos beneath our ordered facades.
Maybe that’s the lesson: the world is strange, but the colour of your glasses and your playlist makes all the difference.
Sometimes, the best you can do is trip gracefully, blame the leprechauns, and dance on, consequences be damned.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. ‘Cause I am a superwoman
Yes I am
Yes she is

See, even when I’m a mess
I still put on a vest
With an S on my chest
Oh yes, I’m a superwoman

This is for

For all the mothers fighting
For better days to come
And all my women, all my women sitting here trying
To come home before the sun

And all my sisters coming together
Say yes I will
Yes I can

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