Final Accounting: 2008

 

Today is the last day of this year, 2008. I have spent some time, looking back on the days, weeks, and months that are passing into my personal history, perhaps better labeled herstory. This has been an incredible year, an extremely good one. Looking back on it has been a mostly satisfying pleasure. My life has changed, and I have changed with it. Challenges met and overcome, dreams fulfilled, and new avenues of experience risked and met with success.

I started the year in a sort of fog, settling down in front of the TV with an unconscious, but strong inner urge to become just another couch potato. If I wasn’t watching the boob tube, I was reading yet another murder mystery, completely oblivious to the fact that I was well into committing my own form of soul murder. I wasn’t writing at all, the pen and its demands had been given up for activities that were far less demanding of any thought, let alone process.

Then came American Idol and David Cook. Bless you David. I know that you don’t know me, don’t have a clue what you did for me, but I will always be grateful, none the less. You got me up and out of that overstuffed rocking chair and back on the page. Back inside this thing I really love to do, and am quite good at. But, and this might be the most important part, I was back in a very new and different way. Awakenings are wonderful things, or can be, if we allow them.

Then the doctor diagnosed the beginnings of diabetes. What a shock that was, even though I knew that I was an excellent candidate because my father had had it and my oldest daughter has it as well. New regimens: diet, and daily blood sugar counts. Although I don’t enjoy poking myself everyday, I have done it, without fail and reaped many rewards. A new awareness of my own physical reality, a weight loss that continues and has allowed me to drop five sizes in my clothing, and a much deeper respect for my own ability to follow through and stick with it, staying inside the present moment.

I started counseling and have found it to be very satisfying as well. Letting someone else see my emotional well-being, or lack of it, has given me new perspectives on most of what has happened over the past year, as I’ve listened to an objective voice that is constant in its support and ongoing encouragement, a voice that often asks those questions I don’t even consider, or see, as important.

I began blogging in June. All new territory and one that led me here, to this site, and a deep committment to continue to explore my own personal space while encouraging others to do the same. And one that also led me back to my first love: poetry. I have written well over sixty prose articles on this site, but have also written a great deal of new poetry, exploring and finding new ways of expressing myself. Allowing myself to be prompted and challenged in several different directions.

That, in turn, has also led to the establishment of another new blog: 
 http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/ which will be centered around my poetry and the music that feeds me. I will post there for the first time, tomorrow, on the first day of the New Year. My first post will be titled A Woman of Color, and inadvertentlycelebrates yet another new endeavor I have stumbled into. Coloring. Laying down colors and watching the patterns come alive beneath my fingers. It is closely associated with laying down words and watching the patterns come alive with meaning and awareness. I would hope that you come and take a look and drop a comment or two.

Along with all these new disciplines and activities which constantly challenge me, I have recovered a number of old friendships and deepened each of them, so that they feel new, but also have the comfort and strength of familiarity. Each one has meant a deeper commitment to my own life and has afforded me the opportunity to re-establish this person I call Elizabeth, that one who was getting lost in that overstuffed rocking chair in my living room (I haven’t watched more than a few hours (maybe four or five total) of TV in the past three months, and have read only two and a half books in that same time period).

I have also had the pleasure of creating several new friendships, here online. Meeting diverse new individuals and finding common ground is exciting and challenges me in other and different ways. I have been able to teach, encourage, and to learn, all at the same time, and with the ease of doing so from my own comfortable little space called home.

All in all, this has been a year of awakenings on many levels. It has led me here, to the beginning of a New Year that is filled with the brightness of hope and even more opportunities to learn and to experience. I was recently prompted to write about daring to dream, and found that I couldn’t, didn’t seem to have a feel for the topic and came up blank with no more than fading dribbles that went nowhere. Maybe, because so many of my personal dreams have found fulfillment in this past year, and the very real fact that I am now living inside of those dreams. They are my reality, continuing to feed and nurture even more of the same and bringing them to fruition. There is no daring involved, there is only new and deeper life and meaning.

The In-Betweens

 

This is a difficult time of the year. Christmas is behind us, New Year’s is still coming, and we are caught between them. All the gearing up for the Big Day, needs to find its natural release, and feels a lot like letting down. All the color and excitement is over and it’s time to make plans again. I doubt I am the only one feeling the blahs as a result. Those in-between spaces and places that very quickly go gray in comparison to music, laughter, get togethers, surprises, gifts, and what not. It all goes by so quickly and we are left feeling just a bit bereft because its over and behind us already.

Do I have a solution? Nothing other than that we are all in the same boat. The fact that this lull is a natural one, might not satisfy, but it does make sense. There is a balance in all things. Even in the ongoing rhythms of our daily experience. All that anticipation must find a balance in the reality of the few small, or maybe major disappointments. Many of us had to change plans because of the weather, or cancel whatever plans we had made. Making such adjustments might be easy for some, but for the majority of us, it leaves an aftermath.

We are facing a New Year with all of its inherent expectations, or maybe none. We want it to be different, better, but what would make it so? Is there something we can do to bring that possibility into a clearer focus? What one thing would you personally like to see happen in this coming year? If you are like me, that thought might draw a blank, maybe a few fleeting ideas, but nothing with any real focus. And yet, there are some things that I would like to see happen in my small little piece of the world.

I would like to see more acceptance, more understanding, less strife and tension. A whole lot less anger and dissatisfaction. So, as usual, it must begin  with me. Are there people in my life who need more of that? Most certainly. I can think of several. Can I offer them a bit more tolerance and a lot less judgment? Specifics? Oh, that sounds like real thought and work. But, if this is truly what I want, than it is what I must begin to give. Starting right now and in this moment. It’s called seed faith.

Nothing grows in the in-betweens. It’s a blank gray space. But, I am here, inside of it. I am alive, breathing and therefore, hopefully, growing. It’s hard to think in this place. The thoughts are there, but moving like fog and just as wispy. Hard to hang onto. Where was I? Oh yes, seed faith. Giving what you hope to receive. Sounds a bit selfish, doesn’t it? Maybe even a bit more than just a bit? Maybe a lot?

Well, it is, but it isn’t. Make up your mind. Well, I’m trying to but I’m stuck here in this in-between place, and it’s very difficult to concentrate. So, seed faith? Is it selfish or not? Well, it might start out that way, but it changes as soon as one engages in it. The action of seed faith is giving out of your need. And giving isn’t selfish, at least it’s not supposed to be. Seed faith doesn’t work if you give expecting that other person, the recipient of your gift, to give back. You give with hope, nothing more. And that makes it far less selfish because it changes the emphasis. It becomes more important to give than to receive.

So, if I want acceptance and understanding, I need to give those things to the people around me. Whew! I think the fog has lifted a bit, I can now see a bit of sunshine in the offing. There’s more to this though, isn’t there? There is that balance thing to consider. When I give, I empty my own hands. And empty hands are capable of receiving. If I’m stingy with acceptance and understanding, hanging onto them because I think this person, or that one, might not be deserving, than I am actually filling my hands with judgment and they can’t receive anything if they are busy clasping the heavy hard edges of that commodity.

So, I have to let go of the judgment and just give. I think I’m beginning to see what this entails. I have to make sure my hands are empty before the giving can be anything but selfish. Then, and only then, is the giving true giving and with it, comes the end of the land of in-betweens. No more gray fog and wispy thoughts. And the specifics will work themselves out as I move through this day and into the next one. Instead of all that grayness, I now have purpose and clear focus.

Each person I meet must be seen through that focus. What bit of acceptance and understanding do I need to give this individual? By doing that, focusing outside myself, I actually move me outside of the land of in-betweens. It wasn’t at all comfortable and I’m glad to be leaving it. I much prefer the sunshine and all that can be clearly seen and experienced within it.

Hope you have a good day and many more in this coming year.

Butterfly Day

Butterfly Day

I have found a new form of therapy. Coloring. I love it. The logic part of the brain is occupied with keeping the color between the lines. But the rest of the mind is free to roam and make connections, presenting them to me in both words and images: pieces of conversation, thoughts I’d had on certain subjects, phrases that until now, were separate things, suddenly find themselves together making a new sort of sense of old things.

Laying down the colors is both soothing and meditative in some fashion. Each image is different, filled with possibilities, and it is wonderful to watch the images come alive and take shape beneath my hands. I have found numerous sites on the Internet where one can download and print a seemingly inexhaustible variety of coloring pages of diverse images and topics to ‘create’. I have visited many of them and downloaded a great many of the pictures which, for the most part, are free and take  very little time to prepare. I usually scan them and then crop to the size I want, then print them on card stock. I use fine art pens because the color is far more vibrant, but that is my own personal choice. One could choose to use any number of coloring tools, ranging from crayons to water color pencils.

And these images are becoming a part of my journal pages. The colors are meaningful and can be used to explore ones own experience and psyche. Take my butterfly above. Green is the color of growth, while blue represents knowledge. The background of yellow symbolizes the sun and speaks to prosperity and well-being. These are my personal choices, as far as meaning goes, and I have used them for many years. More important is the symbol of the butterfly itself, which speaks to transformation and change.

The butterfly has four stages of development: the egg, or larva stage; the caterpillar; then the chrysalis or pupa stage; and finally the butterfly or reproductive stage. These, in turn, can be compared with our own stages of growth and the learning process. The metamorphosis of the butterfly from egg to full maturity is a continuing work in progress and so are we.

It can be of great value to track our own experience on certain levels in order to avoid frustration and a negative self-attitude. Why beat yourself up because you are at the caterpillar stage, which is also known as the feeding stage, taking in what will be necessary for the next stage of growth, realizing the necessity of being right where one should be instead of farther along in the process. It would be nice if we were all born knowing exactly what we need to know, but that just isn’t our reality. There is a purpose and focus to each stage of being and its good to remember that.

I also find that the soothing affect of coloring is a great stress reliever. Somehow, in the very act of creativity, I find myself releasing, letting go of those things that have been bothering me, especially on the emotional level. Creative energy is a built in healing process, and this is certainly an inexpensive means of accomplishing that. I have used it to create gifts for others, that have a far more personal meaning than anything I could have purchased.

We, my family, will be gathering for our Christmas exchange this morning. My older sister will be coming in with her daughter and three granddaughters. Because they live at a distance, they don’t usually attend this yearly festivity. When I found out they were coming, I wanted to have gifts for them as well. I had been downloading images of butterflies to use for another gift idea, but decided to use them instead for my sister’s family. I had purchased several different size frames, at rummage sales, this past summer. With little time and a bit of effort, I found several of the same size, reduced some of the prints to match those sizes, and wrapped them up.

As I was finishing this project, my sister called me to tell me she would be seeing me today. She asked me what I was doing. I laughingly told her that I was making a ‘butterfly day’ for herself and her girls. She is extremely curious about what I meant. I left the images uncolored, so they each will be able to choose whatever color scheme they prefer. I really like the idea and image of all of them gathered together, coloring their butterflies, making a gift for themselves, which will have special meaning to each one.

When I was finished wrapping and packing it all away, I sat down and colored the image above  for myself. It will go into my journal entry for today. A delightful piece of decoration, packed with layers of meaning and things to write about, as I feed myself for the next stage of my own existence. Do you gift yourself with an occasional ‘butterfly day’?

Christmas Wish 2008

 

I wish for each of you
a day of warmth and gentle
kindness, full of laughter
and whatever love you can
contain. At least one hug
offered and accepted freely,
an embrace that allows
each individual to know
they are accepted for who
they are, and all that they offer.

One pair of eyes that light up,
sparkle at sight of your countenance,
dance with inner joy because you
have arrived and are alive
to share these moments.
Food that is nutricious
as well as delicious
and sates the hunger
that dwells in each of us.

I wish you soft music, laughter
that is a tonic to tired souls,
and the light of hope
that comes in many shades and colors.
Most of all I wish you love
that is not complete
unless given as well as received,
soft reminder that each of its strands
held in our hands, bind us to one another
and will always do so.

Have a Merry Christmas, and a  Wonderful New Year,

Elizabeth

Stain Removal

 

Remember being dressed up in a new outfit, new shoes, cleaned and sparkling from head to toe, with Mom’s smiling approval? On the way to some social event, if only at Grandma’s house for holiday festivities? Then within the first hour disaster strikes and somehow you have to spend the rest of the day looking at some horrible stain on snow white shirt, fancy pants, or new dress? Worse part is, it wasn’t actually your fault, but Mom’s smile has turned to a frown of disapproval or disappointment, each and every time she looks over at you.

Those looks haunt you, even years later, because they are a moment when you knew you didn’t have that approval that made you feel secure, safe in a world that was, for the most part, quite overwhelming at times. It would be great if there was some sort of All Purpose stain remover that could be applied to the memory, remove the stain, and let life go on without it.

A few days ago I wrote, in a poem (Only Lightly Grasped),  about the stain of sin on a precious white soul, that the nuns of my childhood told us about. They knew their stuff. Knew of that almost universal experience and its consequences and affects on young and impressionable children. Knew it and used it to create an image that is quite haunting and somewhat daunting to deal with.

In the poem, I compared that stain, that image, with writing words on white paper. But, the writing is a stain remover, one that actually works. Being a child means making mistakes both large and small. Making mistakes is simply an inherent part of the process of learning and growing. Yes, it can be avoided on occasion, but never completely. And those mistakes leave a stain on the soul and in the memory. Not just stains, but sometimes scars on that developing psyche.

The word sin actually means, missing the mark, ie. mis-take. It does not mean evil, wicked, or hell-bound for a surety. Those definitions came later, and depend on the particular view of the speaker using the word. It simply means missing the mark, and because it does, it also means that one might do better to change ones trajectory so that it doesn’t happen again. Which means there is always hope that with practice, little or much depending on circumstances, one may eventually hit the mark and move on to other things.

Yes, I know there are Big and Little sins, but regardless of the adjective placed before it, the sin still means the target has been missed and its best to try again, or walk away and not even make the attempt. That also depends on the individual and is therefore, a matter of personal choice.

It took me years to discover this small bit of reality, the meaning of the word made a world of difference to my sense of self, as well as the past I carried with me no matter where I went, or what I was engaged in at any given moment. With that discovery came the realization that if sin was a mistake, a missing of the mark, then I could possibly find a few ways to undo what was irritating and disappointing in my past, and maybe even put that smile back on my Mother’s face. Wow, that was a freeing moment of enlightenment.

Simply put, it meant I could actually go back and correct the trajectory, change my aim, and remove some of those stains the nuns spoke about. For a while, if I’m to be honest, it meant I could thumb my nose at those black clad women who sometimes haunted my dreams even into adulthood. Eventually, however, I had to admit and acknowledge that the image they used, was also a key into redefining my life experience. Which meant that I could actually thank them profusely for supplying it. Hell of a turn around, that was.

So, how does this all work? We do remember every moment of our existence. Each one is stored somewhere inside of us. Some of those memories have the power to make us wince, feel shame or embarrassment, even years after the experience. They can prevent us from moving freely through our lives. Tie us up in knots that don’t allow any form of forward progress.

The first step, always the most difficult, is to take them out from that dark space inside our person. Bring them out into the light of today, rather than leaving them in the shadows of yesterday. Hang them on a clothesline and let the fresh air get all that musty smell off of them. We do that by writing them down on a piece of paper. Yes, making another stain, this one with focus and deliberate purpose. This is the stain of new beginnings, new avenues to explore, new images to record and to learn from. This is the stain of hope. Hope of change, perhaps of renewal and even rebirth, new uses, and purposes and possibilities.

None of that will happen if we just walk away and leave them. That old stain will always remain, and with it, the discomfort of emotions that attend all such things. And there is also the fear of what such exposure can bring. It is the inherent value of a personal journal that allows that risk. But also allows the fresh air and sunlight such an airing provides. That reduces the risk to time and energy spent. Not a bad price for stain removal and possible renewal in the bargain.

Do you have a new outfit for the holidays? Something really special that might even make your Mom’s eyes sparkle with approval and regard? Wear it with confidence, let it inform you that all things are possible if you want them enough. But also remember, if some clown comes along and dumps his dinner plate in your lap, you can go home, and remove the stain, begin the process that could allow you to be a new person in the coming New Year. Trust yourself and the stain remover, it works. Happy Holidays to one and all.

Semantics of Breathing

I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can breathe.

_Anais Nin

Writing means a great many different things to me. A few years ago, someone close to me said that writing was my life. Being who I was in that moment, hearing her words, I argued with her, not because she was wrong, but because she had reduced me, my life, my experience, to one word. I told her that writing was not my life, but rather a tool that I used to create whatever life I chose in any given moment. Ahhh, the world of semantics.

Nin has reduced writing to the need to breathe, and I agree with her, thus proving my good friend quite right in her definition, but also proving myself correct as well. Writing is breathing: inhaling my own experience, pulling it inside of me, possessing it, claiming it as mine, then allowing it to inform and refresh, refuel whatever is there, and lastly, exhaling it onto a page of white paper, or a dirty napkin, whichever is at hand. Only, to immediately do the same, in the next moment.

What does it mean, to breathe? It means to exist, to live, to be alive. And I have to admit, that I am most alive when I am writing. At least, that is how it feels. But Nin takes that one step further. She links it directly to an act of creation, the creation of a particular place and time in which one can and does exist. Sounds a bit god-like, doesn’t it? And that brings in a whole universe of questions.

There is that immediate problem of hubris, that pride that rivals itself against God, attempting to be God, while usurping God’s power and abilities.  Never fear, this is just another blog, and I’ve seen and read better ones, even commented on them, acknowledging that reality. I do however, take pride in this blog, and whatever small contributions it might endeavor to make in the world in which I exist.

Which, in turn, brings us to that act of creation of which Nin speaks. If I am a creature, a creation of God, made in God’s image and likeness, then it only stands to reason that I am, because that word creature begins with the same prefix as the word create, able to create as God has created me to do, to be, to exist, to live, and to breathe. But a whole world, you might ask?

Yes. A whole world, my world, the one in which I exist, and move within, and is influenced and affected by my presence. A very small minute piece, or part, of that much larger world that God created and which affects, impacts on my own. Okay, that reduces it, and me, to an appropriate, un-inflated size, but adds the matter of choice into the mix.

If God created me to create, and I do believe that is true for each of us, just what am I (we) creating? And how, for heaven’s sake, am I (we)  supposed to do that? It’s a matter of choice. I choose to build a world based in my own chosen definitions and to write those definitions here on this white piece of paper. And amazingly enough, I don’t do that because I desire that everyone else accept those definitions. What a horrid thought, and such a dull world that would be.

Although its nice to find agreement, it is far more important to explore other perspectives, compare them with my own, and change, or adjust,  my view accordingly, when needed. And that is one of the major reasons I write. It is the only way I know to keep track of all of it. I am too aware that my view, my take on any given subject is narrowed by the filter of my own experience, and that of the selective memory I have already written about.

Which, for me, brings this full circle and back to Nin’s quote. I do enjoy and cherish breathing, and hope to continue to do so for some time. But, while I am breathing I will continue to write, to explore my own and others’ definitons, thereby using this tool to create my world, and the me that exists within it. For me, it is a matter of semantics, what are your semantics?

Only Grasped Lightly

Writer’s Island prompt 11 - 
 “SLIPPED THROUGH MY FINGERS”.

So much has slipped
through my fingers
that couldn’t grip
as tightly as I wished
them to. Held loosely,
many fell to ground
without a sound, some
forgotten in haste to find
better place to be in.

Theirs, or mine?

And does it matter
if a few shattered where
they landed, leaving only
stranded pieces of what
might have been, but wasn’t
meant to be?

So much more held
on these pages, stories
told in bits and phrases,
poems sung and letters
written in bolder ink
that sinks into fabric
of existence, leaving a stain
that remains, like dark sin
on white soul that nuns
spoke of long ago, when
I was a child.

Pain is a lesson which helps
to remember that grasping
hands are closed to anything
being offered, can not
unfold or receive what might
be given, and living is too
short to spend bent back
toward past, trying to mend
what was never intended.

Temptation To Play Hooky

 

I don’t want to write today. Certainly don’t want to create yet another blog. At the moment, can’t,  for the life of me, think of why I ever wanted to do this in the first place, let alone actually started doing it. Really want to just sort of drift off somewhere. Don’t really care where, just some place that isn’t here, in this moment.

There’s a little voice, way back in the back of my head, that is saying this is a really dangerous place to be in. This not wanting to write space, but I’ve already been ignoring that voice for over an hour and a half. Know it is possible to do so for countless more. Even asked a friend to call me, to distract me, and managed to stay on the phone for quite some time. Laughed about senseless things, told each other jokes, and finally got off the phone smiling. That disappeared the moment I hit this blank page.

I really really want to play hooky today. Have spent the last week immersed in other people, and I want this one day to myself. Not to do anything necessary, that would ruin the whole energy of playing hooky. Like taking a day off to go fishing. Too bad the weather isn’t that kind.

Have never been interested in ice fishing and think that those who do it must be deep into a need to self-punish. Sort of like whipping yourself with the weather. I mean, fishing is for relaxing, for floating, and can’t see how one can do that with teeth chattering, and toes going numb, and then all that cold cold water, right below that layer of ice one is sitting on. Nope, that’s not my idea of fun.

So, what would be fun today? Already had that giggling laughter fest with my friend. But, I need more of same or similar. Just more of nothing, nothing serious, nothing profound, nothing so deep that one must lean forward to grasp it. Must work the mental gears to find any kind of understanding. Although I usually love that sort of discourse, its just not for today. Sounds way too much like work, discipline, energy and action, and that thought makes me tired.

I could clean the house. Heaven knows it could use a good going over. But again, that would be work. Playing hooky is not work. I’d probably feel very good about myself, though, once it was all done. That certainly deserves a few moments contemplation. No, it doesn’t. Not even close.

Hooky, how does one play hooky, yet stay home. There’s that voice inside my head again. “REALLY DANGEROUS PLACE!!  Okay, so its a bit tricky, this path you are on today. The one you have marked HOOKY. Remember the last time you actually played hooky?”  

Sure I do. High school, took off and walked downtown to meet up with boyfriend and others. Walked right into my parents who were out shopping. That was not a good outcome.

“You were grounded for a month, just for starters, had to come straight home from school, and couldn’t even babysit during that time, and remember the entire list of consequences?”.

Yup, I do remember, but so what? I am so far away from being in high school, living in my parents house, trying to figure out how to get around their rules without too much flack. Doesn’t have any meaning in this present moment. Does it?

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it does. Its one of the reasons you have to struggle to give yourself permission to walk away and just play hooky.”

Oh crap! I already decided no profound discussions today. And now my sister has called, asking me once again to alter my day to suit her agenda. It’s really hard not to resent that, especially after the fiasco of yesterday. Which, by the way, is one of the major reasons I want this hooky day. Today! Not tomorrow, today. And I almost caved. A bit of guilty feeling  is not a good enough reason for doing anything.

This is all such nonsense. I will not concede to the guilty feelings. I have not done anything wrong. Wanting a day to myself, to just relax, to float for a while, is not a bad thing, nor is it a sin. As a matter of fact, it is definitely a good thing. A mental health day. ‘An artist’s date’, as Julia Cameron calls it. Down time to refresh, to refuel, to reinvigorate my own person, before I end up empty and exhausted, no good to myself, or anyone else for that matter. I deserve that, and actually need it.

Yesterday was beyond stressful. I was sort of harried most of the day, pushed and pulled in five different directions at once,  and into the evening. Another day like that, and I’ll be depressed, or pretty close to that. Not a good idea for heading into the Holiday week. And my present mood speaks pretty loudly, all by itself. I have to take care of me. That is my first priority and obligation. And I already know that I need to play hooky today. Just disconnect for a while, until I can come back and have enough stamina to face whatever else is coming.

Need to lose myself in some mindless activity like coloring. Just watching the colors flow into patterns, nothing more rigorous than choosing one color from the next. No real thought pattern, no voices except those of some music I might choose to listen to. That really sounds tempting. Deliciously so. Maybe fix something warm and easy to eat. Comfort food, cause I need some comfort today. Yes, this is looking better right along.

My sister will have to take care of her own agenda and obligations. I need to take care of me. My obligations have to do with me today and my need to play hooky.  And I have actually taken care of even one more  by writing this. Now all I have to do is figure out what to title this blog. Then it is onward and upward to warm comfort food and all those delicious colors. I could probably do some dishes while I am making my comfort lunch. Who knows? Anything could happen while one is playing hooky.

The world doesn’t need me for this short space, and if it does, it will just have to wait for tomorrow, when I will be ready because I took the time today, to feed myself internally, as well as externally. Temptation, here I come, and my teeth are not chattering, nor am I losing the feeling in my toes. Still glad I went fishing though, sort of speak, lol.

Holes in The Soul

 

She pictures the broken glass
pictures the steam
pictures a soul
with no leak at the seam
                                       __Peter Gabriel
                                            Mercy Street

Several months ago, I told my counselor about a dream I’d had many years ago, in which I was shown a piece of fabric with assorted sized holes cut in it, and was told, in the dream, that I was looking at my soul. I told her how, with the help of my daughter, I’d found a way to change the end of the dream by mending the holes in the dream fabric. It is an imaging technique I created to deal with dream material.

As far as I’m concerned, dreams are messages from my subconscious mind, and they pertain to my life, how I am traveling through it, my emotional states, activities I’m involved in, and yes, even the state of my soul. Those messages come in a different language than the one used by the conscious mind. They are not conveyed in logic or language, so much as in connective links of images that I can associate with my own person.

In the dream, someone threw that piece of material in a dark corner behind the front door, before leaving and walking out of my life. After picking up the piece of material, holding it in my hands,  and seeing its condition, I awoke slowly. As I was waking from the dream, becoming consciously aware, a voice in my head simply said, “That is your soul, Elizabeth.”

My soul was in pretty bad shape. Dust clung to it, from that dark corner where it had been tossed and the assorted holes, cut through most of the material made it appear as flimsy as waste material or cheese cloth. The semi-conscious voice and its alarming message still rang in my ears. This was serious business.

At the time, my oldest daughter was living with me, and I immediately called her into my room and related all of the details of the dream that led up to its ending and that deep male voice and its disturbing message. We had worked out a technique to deal with dreams, so she gave me very simple instructions, “Describe the material, see how it looks in your hands, just as it appeared in the dream. How does it appear, feel, and how does its appearance makes you feel now as you look at it?”

It didn’t make me feel very good. My soul was in tatters. She then asked me what I thought I could do about it. I told her, I obviously couldn’t toss it in the garbage, it was my soul, for goodness sake. I would have to figure out a way to repair it, mend it, if possible. She then asked me to close my eyes and see if I could see myself doing that and tell her what I saw. I did.

I saw my hands smooth out the material, then go in search of another fabric that would at least match the square I was holding. I found one with a particular pattern and in a contrasting color and then watched my hands pick up a needle and thread and begin to patch each hole separately until they were all mended. Satisfied, we both went on with our regular routines.

What we did, was respond to the message inside the dream, actually changing the end of the story in the dream to one that was far more satisfying and that made sense of the story. We did that in the same language that the dream had suggested, using the images from the dream itself.  In other words, we gave back images that could be easily understood within the context of the dream and could be similarly interpreted, and thus, acted on.

Not every dream image is as easily interpreted as these were, nor do they come accompanied by a waking voice that clearly identifies them. I am using this dream as an example because all of us, in the course of our lives, do encounter differing degrees of pain. And the pain that we experience does cut and rip holes in our souls. To be whole and healthy, we need to mend those holes, or might be in danger of tossing our souls in the garbage.

We mend those holes by finding a way to express our story. Writing it down is one way, painting it, sculpting it, dancing through those feelings, carving them out in wood, or other materials, are just other forms of expression. There are innumerable ways of expressing those things that left unattended will, and do, poke holes in our souls of well being.

The subconscious mind is a wondrous thing. But it is also a wilderness to a logic oriented mindset. It does have a voice and will speak through dreams, both waking and sleeping. When I later went back and explored the material I had chosen to mend the fabric in my dream, I found more and deeper connections in the pattern on that material. It all pertained to me and the manner of my life and experiences. And all of this took place spontaneously inside my own imagination.

I did not set out to find a physical solution to the message within the dream. I found an image that went directly back to my subconscious mind and simply went on with my life as I knew it. In the years since then, I have discovered many ways in which to mend those holes. Each and every one of them is a creative element meant to heal and strengthen the broken places inside of me. That is what creative energy is, a healing agent built directly into the system.

As I stated before, our subconscious mind is a wilderness, and within that wilderness are the living, breathing, Wild Things born out of our pain as we experience our lives on a daily basis. I wrote about one of mine in my last blog. The imagery I learned how to use thirty years ago, is another element of the subconscious mind and it is what I mean when I speak about waking dreams. One uses the exact same equipment to visualize as is used to project dream images on the screen of the sleeping mind.

I am not speaking only of physical pain. We also experience mental, emotional and spiritual pain. Obviously my spiritual pain was deep enough that it spoke (maybe yelled) at me through a dream in which I was graphically shown the holes in my soul. By changing the end of the dream, incorporating a healing solution, I changed the end of my own story. The individual portrayed in the dream as walking out that door, has now walked back into my life, years later, and I can greet her with a healed and intact soul. That is what I call good therapy. And my counselor agrees.

A Tiger Named Pain

Writer’s Island Prompt #10  “MOST AMAZING EXPERIENCE”

Pain is the shell that encloses your understanding.    __Kahlil Gibran

Thirty-plus years ago, I gave birth to my fourth and last child. She was beautiful and healthy, but I seemed to be in almost constant pain after bringing her home. I’d had arthritic pain since age 17, always in different joints, most consistently in my lower back and hips. This was different. It seemed to concentrate in my hands and the joints of my fingers. I was tired most of the time. When the pain continued, I made an appointment with my regular doctor.

He took x-rays and told me he thought I had Rheumatoid Arthritis. I went blank as he explained to me that this form of arthritis was painful and crippling. I remember going directly to the library after leaving his office. After finding, and checking out, four large books on Arthritis, I brought them home and attempted to read them. It didn’t go well. Each of the tomes had a chapter on Rheumatoid, and each of those chapters began with exactly the same sentence: Rheumatoid Arthritis is the most painful and crippling form of this illness.

I carried the four books back out to the car and drove into town to the library, dropping them, one at a time, in the outside drop box. They made a resounding thud when they landed. I drove home in a fog. The doctor had given me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory drug and I began taking it immediately. Although the pain diminished to some extent, it was always there, and the exhaustion never really lifted. Most evenings, after cleaning up the kitchen, and putting the kids to bed, I would drop into the rocker in the living room and just sit there, feeling whatever energy I might still retain, oozing away, as though dripping off my fingertips.

My husband told me that he felt really cheated by the diagnosis. When I asked him to explain, he told me that he felt that he’d been cheated out of a full partner, and might now be saddled with a cripple. If I wasn’t suffering from what has been termed the after baby blues, I was definitely dealing with a lot of depression. I took my medication regularly and also took time out to take warm baths because they relaxed and soothed me.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get on with resuming a rather hectic life. I had always been a veracious reader and continued to do just that. I was interested in a wide variety of reading material and much of it pertained to psychology and the spiritual aspects of life. In doing that reading, I had come across the idea of creating ones own personal space inside ones own being. At that point in time, I desperately needed just such a place and began to seek it actively.

My two youngest were only fifteen months apart in age, so when they went down for an afternoon nap, I would go in my bedroom, sit crossed legged on my bed, and actively seek to create an inner space that would allow me to rest, relax, and possibly refuel. After many attempts, I settled on an image that both pleased and refreshed me. I would watch myself walk through an open, but very old wooden gate into a small meadow dotted with wild flowers and tall grass. There was a path there, through the grasses, that led to a huge boulder. I would climb up onto the boulder and sit, again crossed legged, and just breathe.

Once atop the boulder, I could see for miles. There were no signs of habitation anywhere in view, but there was a fast running wide river and mountains in the distance on the other side of the river. I was pleased with my creation, and got so good at it, that there were moments when I would feel the breeze caress my skin, and could even smell the faint scent of fresh earth, flowers, and even the water. And when I left that inner space, to resume my physical existence, I actually felt rested and more peaceful for having been there.

Then, one day, he came. I was in my usual spot, atop the boulder in my imagined inner space, looking out at the beautiful landscape when my eye caught movement in the tall grasses down near the river. The grasses seemed to be swaying from side to side, as though bowing to whatever was passing there in their midst. I was mesmerized and watched as he stepped from the grasses to the foot of the boulder where I was sitting. A larger than life, fully grown Siberian Tiger.

Amazingly enough, I wasn’t in the least bit frightened. I knew that this was taking place in my imagination, but I had always had a great deal of admiration for the Big Cats. No visit to the zoo was complete without a long slow stroll past their habitats. To me, they were the epitome of power and grace welded together in extraordinary physical beauty. So, I eagerly leaned forward and said, “Oh, yes. You are perfect,” and then grinned like a kid set free in a candy store, preferably in the chocolate section.

He gracefully settled on his back haunches and then spoke. He didn’t move his mouth, but spoke quite clearly into my mind. “I have come of my own accord, and at no ones bidding. I have come to teach and you will not treat me like your pet dog. I come of my own choosing, sent by the one you call Lord.” Then just as gracefully, he lowered the rest of his incredibly beautiful body, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

I was stunned and past exhilaration. I wanted to jump up and down, hug myself, and ask him a thousand questions. What he’d said sounded a great deal like some sort of rabbi riddle. What was his name? Where had he come from? If he came at his own choosing, why did he say he  “was sent?” Why would I even think of treating him like my dog? I loved my pet, but this was way beyond anything even similar to that.

Over the next few days, I went eagerly to my secret place, always hoping he’d still be there, and he was. I did ask a great many questions, but his answers were again, more riddle than clear statement. He continued to tell me he had come from a long way away, a far off place that I wouldn’t understand. When I asked about his name, he avoided giving me a direct answer, and said instead, that I might call him, “ by the lesson he came to teach.”

By the third evening after his arrival, although I was still eager and even excited, I had begun to think this was a useless waste of energy. I couldn’t understand, either because I was just too dumb, or because he wasn’t a very good teacher. I began to prepare yet another warm bath, when suddenly he was there in the room with me. His voice was deep but gentle as he said, “I come to teach you about pain.”

I recoiled away from him and the words he spoke. How could he, the most beautiful and graceful creature, teach me about pain? He had said I was to call him by the lesson he came to teach. How could anyone expect me to call him by that word? Was this whole thing just some sort of cosmic joke played out at my expense? I was instantly crushed and wounded. I said, with deep deep sorrow and regret, “I think you better go now. I have enough pain in my life as it is, I don’t want or need any more.” I was in tears.

He said, just as quietly, “Do you remember when I came? How joyous and eager you were? Would that all would greet me in such a manner. ” There was deep sorrow in his eyes and his voice as he said that. Then he continued, “If you say I must go, I will do so, but I would ask you a question before I leave.” He paused, then asked,  ”You would put away all of that joy and eagerness because of  four simple letters, arranged in a random manner, defining a word you may not clearly understand?”

By then, I was sitting down on the floor, tears rolling softly down my face, but I heard his question. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t raised his voice, but those words were caught forever in my mind. I thought about what he said, and what he meant. No, I didn’t understand, not the word, its meaning to my present life, who or what he might be, or why he had so suddenly appeared in my mind. And how bereft I felt at the thought of never again, seeing him, even if only in my imagination.

After a great deal of thought, during which he waited silently and patiently, I slowly nodded my head and said, “Okay, yes, you can stay.” And he did, teaching me many lessons about pain. One of them is here on this blog. It’s the story of the little seed (Story Time, Sept.23, 2008), and I learned that story as I weeded the huge garden my husband had planted, with my dog following along slowly beside me, and Pain’s deep gentle voice accompanying me the entire time.

He has never left me and has taught me many things and in many ways. I had always thought that the tigers I saw at the zoo, suffered a great deal from their captivity. Just looking at them, I could see how their skin was slack, hanging from their bellies and had thought it was because, in captivity, they couldn’t run freely and so their skin and perhaps, even some muscle had gone slack in the process. Not so. That is a natural condition, meant to secure life and help in survival. Big cats are predators and that means they hunt to live, battling other wild creatures for the very food that will sustain them. That slack skin and fur is meant to preserve and protect vital organs during that continuous battle. I had to learn the same lesson:  not to live so close to my skin and the skin (surface) of my own life.

I did get a second opinion from a Rheumatologist. He took magnified x-rays of my hands and found no distortion of any kind, which would definitely appear if I had Rheumatoid. He suggested that I might be suffering from a sleep disorder that actually mimics arthritis conditions in lab tests. My own doctor said that that sounded fishy. But the pain did diminish to its usual, and mostly, tolerable level.

Several years later, I entered college and took some basic courses in psychology. One of them was about different personality theories, and the men who had defined them. One of those men was Carl Gustav Jung, and I read about how he felt that each individual actually held a ‘guru’ within their psyche. A voice that spoke to the answers we all search for. But, a voice that could only be heard if one got still and quiet in some form of meditation. I knew my guru, he didn’t look like a Tibetan monk, he was a huge Siberian Tiger, named Pain.

While I taught for several years, I actually led groups of people through imaging techniques that I had come to understand were called “spontaneous imagery,” or “guided imagery.” Imagine my surprise, when one night after class, a shy quiet woman approached me with a question. She said that while following the sound of my voice, really getting into her own inner space, she was shocked to find herself, face to face with a great big tiger. She wanted to know if that was okay, and if it was, what she should do next? I laughed out loud, told her of my own experience,  and advised her to go home, get quiet, and ask him his name.