Little Things

photo by Patricia

Yes there are aches and pains along with uninvited thoughts that intrude but they don’t own you. Breathe. Slow down, a common theme for someone whose thoughts tend to race ahead of each moment.

Slow down and notice each moment, each wonder, as my hands feels the softness of the kitten so thirsty for attention; so thirsty sometimes it is a relief to leave the house to get away of her constant meowing. She needs the attention that I need, we are so much alike.

Breathe. Waking in the night it is as if a light were on the rare super blue blood moon washed an orange cast through the curtains. Notice the fresh ground coffee as it reaches your lips, come into the moment and appreciate it. The broken pathways like crinkled wire makes it a challenge to stay here now.

In it in the small things where big things lay;  chats with my Boston son as he wakes and feeds the baby oatmeal, hearing her little laugh in the background as she gaily says, “Nana.” My other son sending a text that he arrived safely in the city after a snowy commute because he knows my concern over driving in bad weather.

It is always a challenge to stay in the moment, uncurling the coiled wire of a depleted nervous system wrapped tight. Take a breath and come back, so much is here to be found.



photo by Patricia

Always a war within, when things feel boring is that boredom or peace? So used to feeling outcast or an instigator, reviewing those old tapes brings new light to them. A more objective eye sees they are not relevant or true.

Growing up feeling in the wrong as a constant state of being brought great anxiety. To feel at ease is a new way being. Regardless of how others react, retaining or discovering my own true feelings is also new.

With no way to my own authenticity, others reactions became mine and chaos within reigned. Even when another whirls with emotions, my internal peace need not be stolen.


Winter Canoe Ride

Dragging the latest mosaic down to the creek on a sled over a thin coating of ice, the sparkly water looked inviting.  Samuel said, “Maybe we could get around the ice for a paddle?”

“I’m game,” I responded. 

After planting the heavy piece of slate in its new home against the tree, off we went. 



photo by Patricia

The feeling of differentness so acute as a child suffering sexual attacks by my siblings arises sharply at times. Many feelings from then still linger, stabbing into my present life. Unprocessed traumas and all the feelings with them didn’t dissipate but grew with me.

Yet no gentleness exists. It is a habit to beat myself up when today’s issues erupt emotion from childhood wounds. There is no conscious link to them. That is changing. There are reasons sleep is interrupted. Wounds untended in childhood along with a stolen voice caused an inseparable rift within; deep wounds and no way to them. I am mute to the world and mute to my soul.

Wounds fester and when touched with present hurts the pain expands exponentially. It is like placing an already burnt arm on a hot stove. The present slides away as the psyche escapes elsewhere. If a person is talking, what is said is not heard.

Self-loathing because the feeling of differentness is so acute is not what the wounded child needs. And she exists within me and will always be there. She needs what you did not receive then. Since there was only one urgent unspoken rule to not speak of it, there is no one to emulate a pattern of how to be gentle with myself.

It is a new road with little to go on except the times my mother extended gentleness in adulthood. There were moments when she tried, maybe to make up for the past. 



photo by Patricia

Some relationships spin the same old way no matter how much effort is put into change. Haunts from the past infect today. Little hurts inflame old unprocessed trauma. Sleep will not come, or upon waking in the night will not return.

A small infraction causing hurt by a loved one sets off the alarms yet it is ringing unaware until nighttime when tiredness setting in meets adrenaline.

You loser, you weirdo, you bad mother, wife, friend, and the bashing goes on. Feelings have overridden behaving in a way to feel proud of. Or shadows of them because the behavior has improved but no credit is given for the strides made. The mind goes off far down the painful road of self-loathing, and I feel lost. Help me, in the night the prayer is murmured.

This has been a usual occurrence for years but the last months a healthy sleep pattern has developed. My belief is that has much to do maturing hence feeling more at peace with myself. To lose it and not know why upsets all routines and body systems, but also most painful, must somehow be my fault. Is it? Or is it unprocessed trauma which goes beyond my conscious choice or control?  

Wake and start again. May your first thought be, “Forgive. Be gentle. How gentle, loving and accepting can you be toward yourself today after the sins you think you committed yesterday?”  And are they such sins? Or is your humanness still not allowed in your own mind.


photo by Patricia

The path to the core becomes tangled, blocked by memories, though the soul goes there to hide. So one resides in a place that can’t be found. No way in, no way out.

She peeks out at times. Maybe there is someone to trust, who takes her hand and guides her. Even so, the world is tough and into hiding she goes.

It may never be safe to come fully out. Maybe only in solitude does she find her soul, a safe haven to breathe, connect and become who she was meant to be.

It is these roots that save her. The very place she runs from, the memories which are a part of her history locked deep below. The same place where she hides.

Coming out she looks below and runs. Yet that is where the strength comes from and has kept her here all along. It is in what she suffered that makes her strong and who she is. It is her history that makes her beautiful.


“We’re going to play house. You’re the Mommy, I’m the Daddy,” he whispers softly in the child’s ear. His breath is warm, and she loves him, trusting her brother.

Blank time, then while bathing the water hitting the tender labia sears with pain. No one intervenes. No one stops more of it. Somehow the child grows and now entering the winter stages of her life those memories are as if yesterday.

How does she take the beauty of today and balance those with the memories of yesterday?