A Soul’s Yearnings

photos by Patricia

Upon waking the first feeling is not to feel. A more rational voice intervened, “Welcome the feelings.”

Turning over trying to sleep more, an hour goes by before Samuel’s alarm rings. He has been asked to work a few days. At 65 he still likes to go in when needed. It offsets our medical insurance bills and he seems to enjoy the productivity and comradery.

We sit by the fire sipping coffee with new kitty Christy at our feet. My jaw tends to clench when greeting a new day. With intention the muscles relax and the body follows.. Relax is just a word and not something that comes naturally. 

Meditation offsets this, and conscious intention helps too but that only succeeds when not bombarded by external stimuli from the environment. It doesn’t take much to overload a system that copes with chronic permanent issues of PTSD.

These challenges need daily attention. The harsh voices alive inside at the ready to beat me down are more familiar than warm, loving ones. Confronting them takes work. Respecting a soul’s yearning comes naturally to some. For others who created ways to survive trauma in childhood, being centered in the soul is unfamiliar.

Breaking from it to survive occurred. And still now it takes work to come ‘home’ to my center, be still, and hear the callings of soul. Those yearnings are what living is all about. Without connection to the soul, curling up escaping elsewhere becomes the normal way of being.

Being present became too dangerous. With no intervention to help finding one’s way out of the collapse caused by childhood sexual abuse, staying safe by dissociating becomes a way of life.

During meditation, one moment at a time, I learned I could be present and be safe. But escaping when overwhelmed elsewhere into that mysterious safe place only known by others who also survived trauma still occurs. 

Coming to now, being here now is not worth it unless connecting with the soul, hearing her speak and satisfying those yearnings.

A kitty lying in my lap purring satisfies mine, a place to pour my love, a conduit for it that has brought me from age 8 to now. When humans became too dangerous to love, there were kitties. That hasn’t changed much. Loving from afar, emails, on-line, OK. Loving in the flesh? There are barriers. There has to be.

Too much was taken to risk losing more. There are other yearnings not yet discovered. And perhaps that is part of the daily work. Listen to the soul’s yearnings, the whispers that go unheard. Find places, make time and places where quietness allows the soft strumming to be heard…the vibrations of the soul.

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Kindness to Self

Work can be done to temper the tendency to make rash moves that occur from an overworked nervous system. Acceptance of that tendency is necessary to achieve a balanced wholeness where esteem for self grows. Allowances for such a struggle means softening my approach to myself. It is OK…this is something to work on, but with gentleness and kindness, not a whip, club and bat. 

In many instances my mind moves too fast and my body lurches ahead with it when what would provide more satisfaction is stillness and thought. Regret moves in adding a desperate futility that anything will ever change. 

Fucking stuck with a PTSD brain makes this a reality that will not go away. Offering kindness to myself and acceptance of what is and why it is helps to make a happier soul who loves herself. Only then is one able to offer that same love and acceptance to others.

If one can’t accept their own frailties and shortcomings, how can you be tolerant with others’?

Coming Home

Death took its toll. The body slows as the spirit heals. 

The loss of Molly struck deeply. The mind off in the distance, the body tired, it took a week before walking again. The fresh air calmed but my head bent in repose watching my feet. Finally looking up to greet the day my boots plodded on. 

As the heart pumped, happy chemicals flowed invigorating a sluggish system. After the final round in the meadow my efforts were rewarded with a rest in the Adirondack chair. Life is once again met with love and anticipation.

Samuel, that sweet man, had tucked wire mesh over Molly’s resting place to keep deer from digging in the soft dirt. Sitting there breathing in, heart beats slowing, the silence of nature quieted the ragged places bringing them home. 

Meet Christy for Christmas

They said keep her in one room for a week so she won’t develop bad habits from feeling overwhelmed. That lasted an afternoon and by evening she curled up next to me and slept for the night. Samuel had been banned elsewhere. 

Night two she slept on the bed in the studio and didn’t meow or complain. At 6 months she is surprisingly even tempered and calm. Being underweight by a pound is quite a lot for a kitten but her appetite is very good so that will be an easy fix. 

Cuddling up on my lap by the fire her purring matches mine as we rock together.  I need this little love like I need air to breath. 

Where Love Flows

The deal made with the crueler aspects of life, OK, I’ll go down this path with Molly as she withers away getting thinner and thinner. I will love her more and be extraordinarily gentle. And as long as she shows some interest in her surroundings then it isn’t time. I will do this but I’m getting another kitty when it’s time for Molly to go.

The months went by, and my tummy turned with pain watching her suffer and trying to ease her constant beseeching that I relieve her discomfort. Until it became necessary to finally do the only thing left that could be done.

During all those months what sustained me and gave me the strength to take on this role was the knowledge of getting another little animal. The urge to do so occurred immediately, the very next morning after her death.

“Cory,” I sobbed to my son over the phone, “How long do I have to wait to get a kitty?”

“Until you are OK on your own,” he responded. And Samuel seemed to agree. And the proper person in me agreed. Yet the unrelenting emptiness bent me over with sobs. The days went by with no relief. This wasn’t a normal grief. This was something else.

Since childhood I’ve had kitties to cling to and love. Humans became too dangerous. Having a warm being to love preserved something in me that might have been forever lost.

Animals allow a safe place where tenderness flows freely, warmly and openly. A heart needs to open. 

A friend calls. “I know you don’t want to do this, but I think you should go to the local animal shelter and look for a new kitty. So many are lonely like you and need a home,” she says. I could hear her tears for me. She is older and lives alone with her dog and two cats. She knows.

“Life is not worth living without them,” she confides. And my desolation matched that sentiment. “Follow your heart, she added.

Within the half hour I told Samuel I was off to do errands and headed to the shelter. A little black long-haired kitten was quietly being run all over by a smaller kitten vying for attention. She had only been there a week and had been rescued from an abusive home. She will have my home now.

The worker who put her in my lap as my tears poured forth said, “I know she will be well taken care of.”

And I responded, “So will I.”

Molly

Waking in the night, she’s not there.

Waking in the morning is even harder. No one to welcome me with purring, and a soft greeting rubbing my toes, waiting for her breakfast, making circles around me.

Each thing we shared is now done alone and has to be lived through. It is hard. We had an uneventful last day. With Samuel at work my feelings were mine to feel and tears washed the puzzle I worked on as Molly curled up near me in front of stove.

A chill ran through me though the air was warm. Upping the heater fan, patting her head as she raised an eye nestled in a ball on the rocker, she knew I was close and not going far. We stayed that way most of the day. The morning sedative eased her raspy labored breathing and when the vet came late in the afternoon she was curled up on my lap.

A jolt from the sharp prick of the needle administering a sedative made her jump off my lap. Her legs gave way as the medication hit making it easy for the vet to replace her on my lap to give the final injection. She was already fully out and went peacefully.

Dr. Marsha tenderly placed her in the box on the soft blanket, her first rattle toy, and a sprinkling of catnip. Marsha hugged me and left. I sat next to Molly awhile. She looked as if sleeping cutely as ever with her paw partly over her face.

A mixture of relief, sadness, and a defiance towards death are with me. Two or three times I laid my hands on her caressing her soft body still warm. Then the blanket was gently wrapped over her after Samuel came home.We carried lanterns, Molly, and a shovel down to creek.

“Bye Molly,” Samuel says, laying her with love into the soil near the lilies.

My little friend is gone, no longer in pain, but what shall I do without her?

Soft Voice

Wear a coat of harshness or a one of furry warmth?

The daily goal as this body ages is to care for it in all spheres; arm exercises, walking, meditating, core exercises, and eating healthfully. Attention to the mind and spirit takes me to the studio for creative pursuits along with daily writing.

The reward for meadow laps is sitting in the Adirondack chair listening to the cold wind blow, the twitter of what few birds stay for the winter, and the water as it falls over the beaver dam; pleasures, but also a balm for weariness, a replenishment for the soul and a necessity for health. 

Too often one of these isn’t accomplished, or another isn’t done right falling short, and the harsh voice begins to bang unless it’s met with a softer more realistic one. Listen to the soft voice, coax it out, let it grow strong.

Garden path stones, one of four to embed into the little garden path next spring.