SPRING

This morning’s moon- photo by Patricia

And he came again. This time we were prepared bringing out rubber boots, a coat saved for getting dirty, and old pants meant for little boys, mud, and water.

Samuel still made ‘tsk tsk’ noises when he jumped in muddy puddles covered with a slick of ice. But my hands came together applauding our little grandson for breaking the ‘glass.’ Soaking his mittens, he picked up the ‘glass’ to throw it down smashing it.

“Don’t you remember being three years old?” I ask Samuel.

“No, I guess I don’t,” he replied, still trying to hurry the puddle jumper back to the driveway to ride the three wheeler.  

“Go ahead if you’re in a hurry. There are still a few more ice puddles to break,” I add in exasperation.

He shakes his head and stays, as my delight soared watching the action. The spring day continued to unfold its pleasures heightened by an exploring grand-son, everything new and wonderful.

Later after he left, as the sun drifted low in the sky, we sat on the porch. The warmth heated relaxing to my core. An hour went by easily with birds singing good-night as the orange orb dipped behind trees with a kiss of ease filling and complete. 

This morning the huge, full, yellow moon descended where last night’s sun went down while the sun dawned in the east. Excitement barely containable explodes within as spring explodes. Wanting to run marathons, a walk will have to do.

Tiny green buds almost indiscernible begin to grow on the wild honeysuckle along the hedgerow. Innumerable pleasures await. My being grows in this plot of land as the landscape wakes and grows.    

Happy Grandson

A three year old surely helps to bring out the child in a person as we both trot happily down to the creek. He jumped in every puddle after telling him it was OK to do so. Mud splashed up on his boots, pants, and even the bottom of his coat as Samuel made ‘tsk tsk’ noises. But my laughter was forthright with joyful abandon.

A brisk day to bundle up for, yet flower bulbs are popping up out of thawed soil with patches of blossoming snowdrops scattered everywhere. He delights in throwing sticks into the creek.

“Watch Nana,” he says looking back expectantly.

“Oh, what a splash!” I answer, pulling my scarf down so he could see my smile.

Giggling he gathers more, over and over again. Our creek-side landscape received a nice clean-up as he exuberantly picks up twigs and fallen branches running back and forth to the water’s edge throwing them in.

Eventually we end up back in the driveway where he rides the plastic car holding his feet above the peddles while coasting down to me excitedly. We draw chalk pictures on the blacktop, blow bubbles, and toss a ball until his head begins to droop. 

By then lunchtime comes just when his Daddy picks him up all muddy, wet, tired and hungry. We send him home in clean clothes with a peanut butter sandwich on his lap.

Contentedly wrapping myself up in an afghan as a chill settles in, memories warm me. The morning outdoors didn’t feel cold at all, just packed full of fun, excitement, and laughter.

BLOOM

photo by Patricia

Waking, the same dead dragging feelings wake too always present in my core needing work to banish and confront. Sipping coffee rocking by the fire, watching the cat pretend hunt on the porch through the sliding glass doors, the question presents itself— why?

Why always awaking with pessimism framed with rocks of depression? Why goes back to Chet, not the first attacker, but one who held me captive long after the attacks stopped. Captive in badness. Knowing it wasn’t my fault wasn’t known then.

Like weeds overtaking gardens with deeper, tenacious, stronger roots than flowers, thoughts and beliefs that developed in childhood grew thick and heavy, solidly intertwined, and muscled. Hack away at it, they grow back while sleeping waking as if all that happened was yesterday.

The feelings, the heaviness of blackness believing myself bad, abnormal, abhorrent really, not fit to be born, surely not fit to live, craving relief from the pain even if it meant thoughts of death for decades to come.

Why? Isn’t laughter, light and joy part of being alive too? Can’t these feelings dance? Why must the feelings upon waking be so forlorn? What else is there? As the delicious black brew is enjoyed, more of what’s hidden wakes too.

Wind blows through the tree limbs with a song as geese fly overhead, nature melodies comforting. Spring, a time to dance, play and laugh, as in any season if one tries, but spring is especially exciting. 

 

The Loneliness of Shame

Temperatures dip into the teens and still dropping as snow swirls in mini-tornados off the roof. The fire emits a burst of heat after the fan is tuned on. Even the house temperature dropped overnight.

After the cat ‘hunt’s on the screen porch during my first sips of hot black brew, she comes in to curl up next to me on Samuel’s stuffed rocker complacently watching me write.

The comfort of home cannot be overstated. Home where my depleted nervous system can be pampered, protected, and cared for. Home where creativity can blossom, and working on freeing myself from the internal too harsh critic can be accomplished over time and with much dedication.

There is no freedom being locked in with critical voices of the past yammering in my head ever since age 8 and the first violent attack. When no one comes to help, a child feels to blame. The family unconsciously understands how well this silenced me, and willingly added to it along the way.

Their shame of doing such deeds, or standing by doing nothing, caused an even bigger shame, the shame of silence, dumped on tiny shoulders willing to take it on. Taking the blame was far better than feeling powerless, not a conscious decision, but self-preservation. I’ll take the blame because otherwise the people I depend on are not dependable, then where would I be?

Guilt and blame are easier boulders to carry than powerlessness. So the family’s shame became my shame. I didn’t just do bad, I am bad. 

It took a life to unburden, rock by rock, right down to the empty wheelbarrow where loneliness clawed like finger-nails on a chalk-board, scraping my insides scratching outwards on tender, raw flesh. Only in going there could I be saved, facing the self-hate, staying, exploring, challenging the voices…

Go to my center, be there, hold me, love me, settle in for the ride, because all others will come and go. I am the only one who will stay. My mother once said, “Be your own best friend,” giving me a book with that title. It has taken a life-time to begin that process. Thank you mother, but it would have been better had you kept them off me. 

 

Holding my Own Key to Happiness

Forever at the root of my core resided the belief of being bad, wrong, and always the one at fault. That is the feeling turned fact at age eight, growing every year becoming rock solid.

And that belief did solidify. How could it not with no one to tell me differently? No one to hold me, rock me, tell me that what they did was wrong, that they would be punished, that it wouldn’t happen again.

Because it did keep happening, and happening, and happening.

This is a time of peace, a time when that belief has been chipped at, questioned, and challenged. A crack has evolved where warmth seeps in, or oozes outward. Ever so slowly, bits of comfort float up where once only animosity to self had been. It is a change that could have occurred fifty years ago.

If only someone had the courage to hold my hand and take a stand. No one did. But I do now… tentatively, fearfully as if I’m doing something wrong in liking myself, for showing acceptance towards my own being, like the axe will fall for doing so.

No axe falls. Taking that step towards kindness and self-love after so long is freeing. The origin family collectively used subtle tactics to sustain low esteem to keep me silent. But my true nature includes persistence.

Baby- steps, tiny fissures are pried open wider using words of encouragement and uplift rather than harsh criticism. Treasures are found never enjoyed before: peace, openness, self-acceptance, joy.

Freedom is savored, the freedom to choose to (learn) to love myself. And each day a reminder to embrace gratefulness for making it through the hazards and treachery of all the years past. Where self-hate ruled in a mixing bowl of adrenaline pumped anxiety, confusion, self-doubt, and a total inability to connect with my own soul. 

To come to a place others never lost, is now found for me. A delectable experience not to be contaminated by bitterness towards what was. My choice is to enjoy the miraculous now.   

 

PEACE

The morning brought an odd sensation of aloneness though Samuel was around. Record temperatures of warmth were reached pulling me out to slop through the wet fields for a restful, peaceful walk. The pines whispered while passing by, like welcoming statuesque friends in a row branches extending for a handshake.

Choosing the elliptical in the basement over the coldness outside, made it  quite awhile since walking the meadow. It was sorely missed; the soothing quiet, interrupted by a few chirps, the whistle of the train brought closer with the wet air, and sounds of silence enhancing the respite making me linger a long time.

Yet a feeling unnamed there in the background wavered with a hesitancy to force it away. But conversation internally tried wedging it from its roots touting gratitude over loss, aplenty over scarcity. The little bit of blues scattered with the breeze while walking back to the house.

Inside a message on the answering machine bleeped red, my son asking for a callback.

“Um, just wondering if you’d like to take the kids this afternoon? We are thinking of doing errands then eating out afterwards. We’ll pick up the boys in the evening, but Cindy would like to stay the night,” Shane asked.

That was what was missing. Kid care, my devotion to my children, now their children.

“Oh yes, of course!” I responded delighted with anticipation and excitement for the fun day ahead.

Samuel drove me to the store to pick up pizza and ice cream after William’s basketball game. All was happily scarfed down later after a raucous afternoon of joyful activity with the three of them. Sometimes just what is needed comes along. No pushing, trying or scraping for more. Instead, patience, time, and living the best life that I know how, and learning to be the best person I can be.  

 

Come On Spring!

It is hard to describe, this vaporous hole inside searching for a mooring, finding none, so it whirls ungrounded craving connection without landing.

It spins in the night, waking me.

Thoughts keep the comet sparking sending me to the cabinet for antacids, then TV, then bed again till 5 AM rolls around. How to hold all that goes on outside of myself inside, and still remain balanced.

In winter it is struggle. So when the blues of Cory’s leaving passes, there is still the depression less daylight brings. As days grow longer by seconds, then minutes, the wait for spring begins.