photo by Patricia (back meadow)
A box of journals came with us to this plot of land 13 years ago. Writing saved me. My journey expanded from rage deepening beyond into love, acceptance and a joyful peace. Flipping through the words it was page after page of mistrust and rage. Throwing the anguish onto the pages allowed day to day life to limp on.
A new life emerged, one where rage fizzled into nothingness. No need for sons to find these when I’m gone. Carrying the box full of books to the slope in the meadow where the old rusted can sat for burning garbage the pages were torn out and thrown in.
Striking the wooden match and tossing it into the pile, the rage flamed high then sputtered to ash; much like my feelings where blessed peace has been found like a candle not a fiery pyre. Flames licked the wounds as the last red ember was spent and fullness expanded as long easy breaths relaxed my entire being.
My legacy will not be rage. Writing almost daily was a necessary outlet to vent and survive. But what the heck was I doing? All those feelings, thoughts, and possibly important memories might be needed for the book I was about to write. But they mostly contained the spewing of anger and how every-day simple things enraged and explosively frustrated me. My inability to trust was at the root of it along with being silenced over horrific childhood traumas that imploded for far too long.
Now was to begin a new process of writing. What lay beneath the smoldering rage was unfathomable pain and repeated traumas; unyielding pain buried so deep along with memories that had been forced into a child’s being and kept there till mid-life. It buried everything claiming my life…all warmth, softness and safety. My gut began to release the horrors not mine to keep.
My son Cory helped with the technical parts of writing a book. One day he said, “I always remember you writing. All those journals will come in handy.”
My stomach lurched, what had I done? I didn’t mention the curative fire. A calm came. What was coming up came from another part of me that was speaking the truth. I had connected to something other than my head. In my gut, my soul, the hora, I knew the stories and had suffered with their malignancy as they spewed and spread tainting all that was good, pure and made life worth living.
It is where my authentic self was buried by force and silence. It was as if from the age of eight I didn’t exist. I became a shell of a person playing a role. As the horrors erupted chapter by chapter so did a life of peace and love.