I just spent twenty minutes or so lounging in the hammock, meditating. It sits right at the edge of the woods, adjacent to the old, abandoned dog kennel. The breeze there is wonderful, with just a bit of sunshine peeking through the cool shade of the trees. The birds are amplified there, and the cares of the world slip away. Almost.
I was praying, and I realized that today, my god is my goddess. I prayed and personified my higher power as that of a Mother who carries me within Her womb when I need safety, in Her arms when I still require safety but choose to look out at the world, and allows me to wander away when I want to prove that I am the Mistress of my own destiny. I always have a safe place to return, and knowing that She will not impinge upon the freedom I need to be who I am. So, as I said, I was praying.
I prayed for peace within the storm raging inside me. Just like the sound of trains or highway traffic when one lives nearby, I don't often hear it, but it's there. I choose to lean into the wind and continue going forward.
In the last month, I have watched my father die, I have learned of my primary abuser's death, I have faced down another abuser, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction but got to watch him squirm, I have quelled, or think I have quelled, problems regarding my absence and preoccupation inside my home, and I have reconnected with my neice, whom I haven't seen in twenty years. Her mother was one of my abusers. I found out that my primary abuser (another family member) harmed many others, and I have had to question myself -- should I have persisted, told someone else other than my mother (who did nothing)?
I've also had to face some health issues that have existed all along, but they're getting worse, and they now have a name. They have an image. I think of other people with these problems (the discs in my back), and I see that they have become limited in ways that I don't consider myself limited, even though my own limitations are considerable. My freedoms are much more considerable, all things considered. Ah....what a mess. What a mental, emotional, and physical mess.
I'm happy. I believe that. I don't think I'm in denial. I'm grieving for my father. I'm processing this new knowledge about and experience with my abusers. I'm working my program like my life depends on it, because it does. I'm okay. School starts in less than a month and I have a garden brimming with product that will need to be processed in some fashion. I want to do all of that myself, but I know it's a bit unrealistic. Oh, George will do it with me, but this year, this year! I'd like to be the one who initiates at least some of it. I did that with the freezing on Sunday -- eight quarts of green beans and seven quarts of zucchini.
I got my father's scrub shirt, the one he wore home from the hospital. Wow, I'm jumping around. The garden reminded me of him. He has this -- had this -- pitifully small little plot, and his sweet peppers just aren't producing. I'll need to make sure my mother gets some. He has tomatoes....oh, I'm digressing again. I got his scrub shirt, and when I picked it up, pressed it to me, I lost it. I cried. I cried, and I was comforted by my daughter and my mother. Three generations of women standing there, one who lost her husband, one who lost her remaining pappy, and me, the one who never got along well with the old man, but that old man was my daddy. And I miss him. I really miss him.
Till later...
I was praying, and I realized that today, my god is my goddess. I prayed and personified my higher power as that of a Mother who carries me within Her womb when I need safety, in Her arms when I still require safety but choose to look out at the world, and allows me to wander away when I want to prove that I am the Mistress of my own destiny. I always have a safe place to return, and knowing that She will not impinge upon the freedom I need to be who I am. So, as I said, I was praying.
I prayed for peace within the storm raging inside me. Just like the sound of trains or highway traffic when one lives nearby, I don't often hear it, but it's there. I choose to lean into the wind and continue going forward.
In the last month, I have watched my father die, I have learned of my primary abuser's death, I have faced down another abuser, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction but got to watch him squirm, I have quelled, or think I have quelled, problems regarding my absence and preoccupation inside my home, and I have reconnected with my neice, whom I haven't seen in twenty years. Her mother was one of my abusers. I found out that my primary abuser (another family member) harmed many others, and I have had to question myself -- should I have persisted, told someone else other than my mother (who did nothing)?
I've also had to face some health issues that have existed all along, but they're getting worse, and they now have a name. They have an image. I think of other people with these problems (the discs in my back), and I see that they have become limited in ways that I don't consider myself limited, even though my own limitations are considerable. My freedoms are much more considerable, all things considered. Ah....what a mess. What a mental, emotional, and physical mess.
I'm happy. I believe that. I don't think I'm in denial. I'm grieving for my father. I'm processing this new knowledge about and experience with my abusers. I'm working my program like my life depends on it, because it does. I'm okay. School starts in less than a month and I have a garden brimming with product that will need to be processed in some fashion. I want to do all of that myself, but I know it's a bit unrealistic. Oh, George will do it with me, but this year, this year! I'd like to be the one who initiates at least some of it. I did that with the freezing on Sunday -- eight quarts of green beans and seven quarts of zucchini.
I got my father's scrub shirt, the one he wore home from the hospital. Wow, I'm jumping around. The garden reminded me of him. He has this -- had this -- pitifully small little plot, and his sweet peppers just aren't producing. I'll need to make sure my mother gets some. He has tomatoes....oh, I'm digressing again. I got his scrub shirt, and when I picked it up, pressed it to me, I lost it. I cried. I cried, and I was comforted by my daughter and my mother. Three generations of women standing there, one who lost her husband, one who lost her remaining pappy, and me, the one who never got along well with the old man, but that old man was my daddy. And I miss him. I really miss him.
Till later...
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