Lock Ness

Forgive: When a person decides to satisfy their lust using a child’s body, their actions are not forgivable. If one does not forgive the unforgivable how do you move on? By unclenching the clawed, hairy fist of the beast from my heart, squeezing it so tight I could hardly breathe or function. Rage, hate and anxiety ruled my life.

It took years to release the grip of each finger, blood flowing smoother until each sticky claw was off. The beast slipped back into the murky black depths of the scum topped lake. My precious heart was free and once again able to gently pump blood to the extremities, pure, clear and at peace.

Yet the beast rears it’s ugly head at times. In present day scenarios hurts occur. Some run deep reminiscent of wounds unhealed that never will. My heart becomes grasped by hate, anger and resentment.

Help me to forgive. Release me from this. The call to the source within that universally connects us all to each other helps set me on the path to peace. So easily my heart is disrupted needing to be soothed.

Compassion and kindness erupt while walking the yellowy meadow. Tears fall for the child held down, the child despised by the adult me.. 

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FREEDOM

photos by Patricia

Freedom is an odd word. My thoughts are a powerful prison. Negative thoughts flow like an endless march. The taste of freedom when positivity arises makes me yearn for more. It does not come naturally.

Bounded by invisible chains of silence that protects the family unit caged me. Separating from the family of origin did not release the cement block of silence which stifled my being gagging all parts except hate, bitterness, revenge and rage.

Freedom from repetitive negative thoughts about myself began to occur once my truth was spoken. Freedom, that’s freedom. Childhood beliefs about my core badness were questioned deep down where it counts. The judge and jury ruled that harshness was to be overruled and the innocent shall go free with kindness and compassion.

The binding chains of my childhood wrapped my thoughts about life, living, being and who I am into twisted rope that I hung myself on. There was no way out. Attempts to flee were discouraged. The horrors were unleashed one by one because once tasting freedom, real freedom, I wanted more. The origin family rejects the truth discarding me with it.

Pulling up courage like armor strong yet warm, moments of extraordinary peace settled in my core radiating outward. Freedom, to breath, to be in the moment…safe. To allow myself the freedom to belong just as everyone else does. Others take this human right for granted. There are those who never had it.

Buried in concrete my shame became me. Freedom to speak allowed escape into a life worth living, a real person who had a right to be here with special traits, talents, thoughts and feelings. The path to my heart, body and soul was illuminated.

No one holds me hostage now.

BE

photos by Patricia

Much of my life was spent wishing it would end. No more running. Just be and it is OK. Warmed by the sun on the patio my fingers break up the soil in the pots to release the bulbs to replant next spring.  

Be in the moment feeling the sun and the earth. Hear the birds chirp and the crickets hum steadily. The bountiful garden keeps me busy making Bolognese sauce for the freezer and roasting the smaller ones with garlic, olive oil and home-grown oregano. There is sage and rosemary to harvest.

Tree frogs wake from their sleepy night croaking an erratic rhythm of tones in the hickory’s nearby. The school buses and work traffic have quieted and stillness has descended soothing like a warm bath. Let worries melt and embrace the day not with wishes of what was or could be but what is.

Be in the now. The depth of pain equals the depth of joy and wonder. Live now.  

Be in the Body

photo by Patricia

Tap- tap- tap, from the woodpecker in the dead tree. Then a warble of melodies from the mockingbird as it follows me down the meadow to the creek, our resident guard bird. After walking five laps in the meadow the pleasurable award is sitting by creek absorbing nature and its inhabitants. Many surprises await. 

Red-winged blackbirds, bright yellow finches, a cardinal highlighted in the greenery of leaves, and a pair of muskrats swimming back and forth leaving small wakes behind them. The shy heron unaware of my presence spreads its wide wings floating the air current then rests at the creek’s edge close-by stone still. Like a statue it gazes at the water it awaiting fish for its dinner. Frogs burp their deep basses, as the brown duck flies away in surprise. 

My body fully relaxes as if meditating. Usually it is held tight in defense of what awaits. Alone in nature or while meditating it unwinds completely including internal organs. Nature with those moments of peace and safety is restorative.

The meadow, once filled with daisies and buttercups has transformed into a blanket of yellow mustard and matching wild-flowers. Hickory nuts crunch underfoot as a vibrant leaf falls golden tinged with a red-orange hue. The cool night left a thick dew and everything glitters. The landscape shimmers as the breeze tickles the greenery making the diamonds dance. My senses become over-loaded with beauty unable to take it all in. Gratitude fills my heart along with love for life. 

GOLD

Feelings are not facts. Unfortunately the ‘feeling’ of badness became part of my make-up during the period of age of 8 to 11 years old when surviving repeated sexual attacks by siblings. Though not a true fact it is my reality and belief. It takes continual work even decades later. You want a child to grow strong with positive beliefs about herself.

When that doesn’t happen she can spend a lifetime searching to achieve it. Progress occurs over time yet it is hard to sustain. The question put forth daily that confronts the solidity of the belief that I’m bad or not ‘normal’ is, “Why am I bad and everyone else is good?” When put into those simple words it does not make sense and is easier to discard. But it takes consistent effort and at times help from others.

It’s an assumption my child’s mind made. If what’s happening feels so bad, and it’s being done to me, I must be ‘bad.’ With no help to prove otherwise and made to feel all of it had to be kept secret because of how bad it was (and how bad I was), that feeling solidified and became part of my personality.

Working on mining the gold remains a part of each day. Feelings come and go but this one became a part of me and takes continual attention and confrontation. It is hard to eradicate completely because it rooted, grew and solidified.

Chisel and chip away at the beliefs that became stronger than marble, granite or stone and unearth the goodness below. What can be done each day that lifts yourself up and brings health and light to your body and soul? 

The Ceremonial Fire

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.