Black and White Meet Grey

What if you beat the beast by not beating, but loving with soothing counterpunches in the form of words that shower care? A fight or a soft cloud. As it often is in the world of Patricia, finding a balance can be difficult as my world has been black or white. As years pass more grey lifts up offering a sultry fog mixing both. The ups and downs begin to meet in the middle as if standing on the center of a see-saw.

And that’s OK, it’s called balance, and I like it. No great highs to come down from, nor lows to rip myself up from, though there seems to be more of those than the highs. A general evenness has evolved.

Be aware of the successes savoring them, not dwelling on what’s lacking but relishing all that is; the sparkle from the twirling items sending prisms along the wall and carpet causing the kitty’s head to spin one way then the other.

Enjoying her antics, then her need to curl up on my lap offering her belly for pets until my legs ache and need to move. Love flows freely between human and cat. She responds to it, and I surely do if I pay attention to the moments.

So many pleasures at hand, right here at home. A trip to return a few items starts out enjoyable making me wonder if I ought to get out more. Faces smile back at my smile bringing a feeling of joy. By the second hour, and an argument at the check-out, not heated, but ongoing, the manager is called who allows the return.

Weariness takes over with a wish to be home, the tiredness hitting like a stone wall. The external world can be exhausting, reminding me why my life remains reclusive. Each person is parroting their needs, like the cashier who doesn’t understand the benefits of satisfying a customer, repeating the store’s policy as if it’s a edict from the King.   

Home. Home Sweet Home. 

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.

FEELINGS

 

And so they left.

Trying not to feel that achy, scratchy, scrape of need inside, a long walk in the wet meadow with an overflowing creek helped center the internal chaos. Once returning inside to an all quiet house the hollow hole opened again, but not consuming me like it once did eating me alive… a feeling trying desperately to run from.

“Do you feel it,” I ask Samuel once again, hardly believing it is only me.

“No,” he said, adding, “You think about it too much.”

“It’s not a thought,” I said, perturbed, “It is a feeling…it hurts.”

Calling a friend, more tears come, bringing needed relief, more relief than trying to talk to a wall like Samuel. My friend reminds me I am a good person, artistic, a sensitive soul, and that helps me feel less odd, more human. Why this ache every time Cory visits then leaves? And Samuel escapes without it?

By evening acceptance rolls in like gentle waves, the ache lessons. A skype call from Cory helps, letting me know he, his wife, and tiny blondie daughter arrived safely after a long day of traveling to the near-by state where they live. It is quiet here without the little patter of running footsteps, her giggles, and happy songs.

But Cory looks tired. He has a life, family, and job, what mother wouldn’t be happy, yet there is that ache. If only he lived closer, but this is the way it is.

Cast-Off

Maybe that feeling of ‘less than’ will follow me all of the days of my life; an achy wound begging to heal yet left ragged with edges that won’t come together. Always there, always present, just sometimes in the background more than others.

A person’s look can cast the hook clinging at my innards pricking fresh blood. How can a grand-mother moving towards her seventies still feel this lonely scratching yearning for self-love and acceptance?

Because even if every other person in the world adored me, it wouldn’t chase away the self-scorn lying inside that causes me to feel little, unloved, not-liked, a cast-off with little worth.  

Self-worth arises when making decisions that are respectful of my needs, yet some of my needs that will always be there are PTSD issues. Using methods to numb that out backfire. There is much work to be done in providing healthier ways of coping. 

It is a new year, with new hopes, dreams, and goals. SUCCESS lays waiting.  

 

ESSENCE

Remember why you do this. It is not to garner ‘likes.’ But to go inside myself, a place often run from.  A time all mine, delectable. See what’s there, feel what’s there, stretch around into all the dark corners and own them.  Each morning, a new day, new ideas, new feelings, as if all the cells died overnight growing new ones. 

A day to hold in my hand like a wilting blossom. Use it wisely, fully, and become all that is. That doesn’t mean saving the world, it means saving myself.

A person almost gone, often still drowning in past habits of pacifying, pleasing, and twisting myself into a person who hardly resembles who really resides inside me.

Authenticity isn’t going along. It is touching my core where truth rings clear, which can mean disagreement with another. Not a nod of the head accompanied by a fake smile to keep things smooth.

It is finding me, being me. Not an easy job after 60 years of fakeness to fit into a world where I don’t want to be anyway.

My world. The trees, wind, and mother, who guides me with her seasons.

Inviting the Beautiful

Even something as simple as a visitor unexpected, delighted in, yet unplanned, in addition to a skype call from Cory with his little angle Quinn, then the grand-kids later for tubing down the hill, cocoa, and dinner altogether when the parents returned…. whew, putting it in writing makes it harder to say simple.

A quiet, albeit peaceful life with Samuel, is gladly interrupted with a fun interaction with others, but so much altogether on one day was too much for my easily stimulated body. It was no fault of mine, things happen. Sleep would not come.

The dreaded sleep aid was necessary, making me groggy all the next day. There was no other way to calm down a nervous system that gets overstimulated. That is the life-long damage of PTSD, which can occur when trauma is not processed at the time it happens. Even fun things cause my body to do this.   

A day of quiet restored equilibrium, but the day felt wasted doing little to nothing except rest. The need to keep reminding myself that rest is needed, and this is not my fault, or flaw, or lack of character, was repeated throughout the day. I’m hardly a believer in anything except it being my fault. It is a tough job to calm me, to keep quiet, to keep still, to silence my worrisome, self-blaming mind. 

Sleep returned to the usual pattern- GRATITUDE. Now the usual heart healthy activities can be resumed; meditation, work-outs, cooking lots of vegetables, and other healthy fare, and trying to protect my delicate internal workings which are too often pushed too far. It doesn’t seem to seep in, though if listening there is a little voice saying, ‘no, too much.’ 

The most important work needing attention, is countering the harsh bully, challenging the awful thoughts which pound relentlessly. That is the work most challenging, and most needed. When that comes first, all else falls into place.

SNOWFLAKES

It’s dark at 5 AM. Flicking on the flood light, snowflakes fall which sooth. Another day, my sigh releases tension that the simple act of waking incurs.

Another day to tackle despite all the gifts bestowed upon me, the cheer of the season, and the thrill that is present for being alive… another day. My shoulders fall with the expressed breath as if in defeat.

Sifting through the digital file of quotes collected, the words bring me home unto myself. That is living. Being present, in my body, the place escaped from more naturally than inhabited.