Tag Archives: healing

Notes I write myself

I used to write down affirmations I’d find

encouraging words for a desperate receptionist

I creep on the cusp between late middle age and becoming a senior

Inadvertently, I’ve added to my counsil a ticker-tape parade

A collection of curated constellations of firefly stars.

When I felt like I was broken, a commodity to trade,

I used to write down affirmations I’d find.

They called out to other spirits in the abyss

where depth of character is most typically defined

by diagnosis

by trauma

by abuse

by neglect

By unasked questions that create black holes in conversations.

But, I realize now, that the affirmations were crutches for me

a way to organize the parts (corruption tried to kill) into pretty piles

I know now, that the people I’ve met were not, by me, to be saved.

I had no tools of my own. I couldn’t and can’t fix someone else.

Despite the advertisements of affirmations I forced myself to witness,

I felt safe among the wounded and the broken

as if acknowledging their suffering, I could heal my own.

By hand and earth, I lit my beacon, my lantern, and held it aloft.

I’m not a map, but I can point you the way out of the inky depths

I used to write down affirmations, but now, I hold the moment

learn from it, accept it, savor the flavor, come what may

Hands of a Creator

“I don’t have the personality to be God.” I stated to nobody in particular. “I just can’t bring myself to allow others to worship their perception of me.”

I have found myself on the top of a pedestal. I’m not really certain when that happened, but when I’ve heard others talk about me, whether to my face or behind my back, I found myself precariously perched on top.

I consider myself a good human, not a good person. A good person isn’t allowed to make mistakes, trash relationships that no longer work, or draw boundaries around what is good for them. A human, on the other hand, is perfektly within their rights to do any, all, or none of those.

I’m embarrassed when people call me an angel. I know how often I roll my eyes or mutter under my breath while I’m doing something for another human who probably can’t do what I can as well. I feel negativity, but I allow it to pass unless it’s harming me or someone I love. I’m emotionally fly by the seat of my pants. I give because I enjoy the feeling I get when I do. But, in spite of that, it’s harder for me to feel joy when doing something for myself (at this time.)

I can’t tell you the last time I laid one of my beloved paintbrushes to a canvas to create. Yes, I’ve been writing which is cathartic in getting my thoughts out, but painting is coloring in the emotions that are overwhelming. It focuses them in a different way than words can. It allows me to express emotions without self-criticism or judgement which I tend to do in words.

When I write, everything has to be in order. Everything has to make sense to myself and for others. Every idea that pops into my head is best written down so I remember what is important to me, what my goals are, and how I’m going to do what makes me happy.

Art, in any of it’s forms, is a way for me to run around emotionally naked. It encourages me to let go of the control I think I need in the written word. With colors, forms, shapes, patterns, etc., I can bring the darkest, the most joyous, the mundane to a life that is visible. It allows me to fight my demons in public without holding onto them any longer. I miss that.

Yet, here I sit typing away as if this is the only way I can be “seen”, when at the beginning of this writing, I talked about the pedestal I’m perched upon. I want to jump off of that pedestal and spread my emotional wings again. The euphoria I feel when I do that is worth it. I’m making time as we speak to allow space for something so crucial to my well being.

I don’t have the personality to be God, but I have the hands of a creator that are longing to spring anew.

Meeting of the Wounds

Yesterday was a wild ride. I took my friend to the orthopedic doctor to get an appraisal done on her freshly broken ankle. During the course of our conversation she said something that struck me deeply.

“When you’re meeting someone, you’re meeting their wounds.”

Dude. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

She went on to say, “People who have had trauma, bring that forward with them in various manifestations. People who are givers typically didn’t have enough and they don’t want others to feel that way so they tend to overgive.” (not exact quote but that’s what she said in essence)

People who were neglected may be overly attentive. People who were abused may be overly protective. People who were torn down regularly may be a powerful motivator to uplift others. People who got lost may find their way to their own path and lead others on theirs.

I had never considered the wounds of others. My focus has been on meeting people as they are right now. Sometimes the encounters are pleasant, others not so much. If it’s not ideal, I tend to grant personal grace because I don’t know why they would do or act in such a manner.

Understanding that I’m meeting all of their wounds and successes really honed in on my understanding of others. But, moreso, it forced me to realize how my wounds interact with the world.

I’ve worked incredibly hard to become the person that I want to be for my own satisfaction. I’ve taken what’s happened to me throughout my many chapters, discarded what didn’t work for my vision of myself and embraced my joy. I’ve struggled to understand where my life choices have brought me. I’ve battled with the traumas that changed my life directions.

And still, when I see other people out in the wild, I did not recognize, cognitively, their wounds are just as exposed as mine are. I didn’t look past the present to understand that their past is as valid to them as mine is to me. That sounds juvenile and a bit Pollyanna, but I WANT to understand. I want to help where I can because my feelings of helplessness, abandonment, degradation, and abuse profoundly changed me.

Some may say that those things were horrors, to which I’d have to agree. But, they were also a catalyst that’s propelled me forward into a level of self discovery, self appreciation, and self love that I don’t know I’d recognize without the impact of of those events in my life.

An online friend of mine has been writing about their own self-discovery. They are picking away scabs, examining the wounds, and putting healing energy where it’s needed in their soul. As I see it, that’s the bravest thing a person can do. The courage that it takes to bite into your own skeleton filled closet, examine the contents of your guts, digest the lessons that have been sorely learned is an incredible journey and not without adventure.

“You’re meeting people’s wounds” not just the current version of them, but all of their life and experiences. I’ll love them anyway because that’s who I am because of and despite my own wounds.

*%(&% Covid got me

Well that was an adventure I do not wish to revisit.

I started feeling off late on the 24th. Like, foggy froggy gross kind of off. Knowing that one of the places I frequent to visit clients had a recent outbreak that spread rather rapidly and even though I wore my mask and sanitized the dickens out of my hands, I thought to test.

On a Covid test, it tells the tester to set a timer for 15 minutes and read the results. Dudes, it wasn’t even a minute when I got the positive test. Yup, still the same at the 15 minute mark. I tested positive. FARTS!

I’ve avoided the plague for four years, but in my line of work of caregiving, I could only dodge the bullet for so long. I’m sorry my reign ended but I wouldn’t trade the time I had with my beloved clients to change that.

Three days of heavy flu-like symptoms, then a cough which gradually dwindled. Fever free on day 5. Feeling as normal as I can at 10 days out.

I hate being sick. I hate not being able to GO! GO! GO! It goes against my ethics, but I further know that if I don’t take care of myself, I’m setting myself up for failure. I’m not willing to fail. I’m not willing to give up. I’m not willing to surrender.

A Meeting with the Spirit of God

Okay, so it’s not like I called God up and asked to meet for a cup of coffee, that is true, but what did happen felt like I could have been doing just that.

I went to orientation as a lay-chaplain today which included getting a spiffy new badge with my broken nose-tape picture on it. My name as well as VOLUNTEER prominently displayed. I spoke with the HR person while she assembled the necessary paperwork. She was far more stressed than I was because she felt like I needed to be out of her office ASAP. I didn’t feel the same way. I figured it would be done exactly when it needed to be. And, as it turned out, it was.

I met with the lead Chaplain SL who was training me. She took me up to the charting room where we gathered necessary supplies. She showed me how to keep the records which involves room numbers and a general description of the visit. She gave me cards that are to be left if the person is sleeping so they know where to call if they need spiritual support.

We then stopped at the nurse’s station, got information about the patients on the floor (which I wrote down), then we went to the first person’s door.

Praying hands

There sat the Spirit of God in a hospital gown too big to fit the slender body it was covering. A meal sat nearly untouched on the table in front of them. As they related the story of why they were in the hospital, my heart wrenched with compassion. I know it sounds a bit arrogant to tell the Spirit I understand, but I really do. I was able to meet God’s Spirit in such a way that I watched their shoulders visibly relax. To hear the laughter that I was able to coax from their lips was angelic. As my guide and I went to leave the room, I reminded the Spirit of God how loved they were. Thank you was returned with sincerity.

At each room we visited, we engaged with a different version of God’s Spirit. I was asked to lead a prayer, which frankly intimidated me because I’m rather private about my talks with my vision of God, but I did it. It wasn’t as smooth and flowing as SL, but it was sufficient enough for this face of God to Amen throughout my version of prayer. I reminded them of how loved they are and ended it in Jesus’ name which felt alien on my lips, but in this neck of the woods it is a Hallmark.

I hope you have felt this way at some point in your life; like you were doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing exactly the way it was meant to be done by YOU. A feeling that leaves your soul fluffy with grace, compassion, and overwhelming kindness, almost like I feel when I go to church and feel the love there.

I had a meeting with God’s Spirit today in many different bodies. Some were awake, aware, and lively. Some were intubated, refused a visit, or were sedated heavily to help them through their crisis. One face was not in this world but was lost in the colors of flowers and what everyone’s favorite was so they could bring them the next time we visited.

To say that I felt broken open would be a bit of an understatement. I didn’t feel broken, I felt like I was finally rising to the task of my soul in an entirely different way. It was rich with experience, understanding, and a conscious bonding to injured spirits.

I may never experience those Spirits of God again, but today I did. May I never forget who I’m talking to when I serve as a lay-chaplain to those incarnations.

May peace be with you wherever you are or go. You are loved.

The Conquering Spirit

Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit

Air, Fire, Water, Earth, and Spirit

I heard the winds of petitioning change howling ‘cross my floor

With courage bound beneath my wings, I opened up my door

The zephyr stole the tendril rooted as a graft for something more

Then whispered inspirations of hope to lift me up to soar

The torch of passion lit a match within my questing flame

to engulf the hearts of lovers true so they would know my name

The fuel that sparked me from the hearth that offered me fair game

has rallied blazing scars of power, on which to stake my claim

I felt the waves of transitional change sprinkling on my skin

The enterprise crashed over me, before I knew to swim

The tidal pools they pull me down beneath the spiraling spin

But the riptide it allows me surf; to shore it brings me in

My feet were planted firmly down beneath the molding clay

which were planted in the sanctioned soil that sent me on my way

The rocks beneath my nomadic feet gather no moss today

The earthen field I stand upon gives gardens of rosy bouquets

To live or not to live…

You confessed that death equals love

pain equals love. You are alone.

Alone.

Suffering solitary confinement for life

with shadows of who you dreamed of being

reflected in the mirrors of their burgeoning souls

warming your icy skin with alien affection

you won’t afford to give yourself.

As you stare at the distortion created by the bottle,

that screams generations of return,

understand that love does not equal pain

or loss or abandonment or unnecessary sacrifice

or lies, deception, theft, loss of integrity

or tears of begged forgiveness forgotten immediately

when the other “Lady” comes knocking

with sharp shaved heads, steaming lips,

and nothing but broken promises.

You select the path. You get to choose now.

It will not be long before it will no longer be your choice.

It will be out of your hands. Choose now.

Choose.

I stop with me

I have discovered a magic within

one that depends not on blood, kith, or kin

It is the luminous moon

the heated sun

the gathering of teary puddles

the shattered undone.

The siren’s wail of my mortality

blooming forth into all possibilities

For some a child is a promise of eternal life

a quenching relief from the death born strife

But I have found magic within my hands

which I’ve been commanded to touch on the lands

to forgo my fears of tomorrow’s gleaning

to step loudly into the room of vanity preening

that I, with the breath of truth on my lips,

must shatter the walls with the twitch of my hips

While singing hymns of thanksgiving, love, and peace

While weeping with gratitude, I crawl on my knees

The oceans of tears that matters to healing

have accepted my joy of life now appealing

For I have discovered my magic within

Ne’er shall I die, for the darkness can’t win.

TRIGGER WARNING: Spousal abuse is no joke

The First Husband

April is Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Awareness month (among others). I am a survivor of Domestic Violence.

April is Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault Awareness month (among others).
I am a survivor of Domestic Violence.

I felt the wash of rage strike through my stomach when I saw you there

With a ONETWO punch of viciousness, I cringed as if it were a physical blow

Violence flashed before my blackened eyes that have long since healed

I remembered in crystal clear detail the fire you created

That burned my possessions forcing me to be your possession

That charred my childhood into echoes of musical damnations

Removing the blessings my mother gave to me

On sunny afternoons in the plant room of my childhood home

And you, with lighter fluid in hand, me begging forgiveness

You tossing key upon key into the blaze despite my please, thank you.

There you were, glaring your judgement on my friend

Turning your nastiness towards someone I love

Every bit of forgiveness I thought I could give was erased

“I think you’re just being vulgar for the sake of vulgarity.”

Fuck you! You’d still have the wife you pledged to protect

If you wouldn’t have pulled her gun on her, or slapped her,

Or pushed her, or punched her, or threatened her, or raped her

Or abused her, or took her love and threw it like your smelly shoes, away.

You no longer are allowed access to me, you son of a bitch.

You are denied access to love from me or my tribe.

You are rebuked and are denied absolution from my heart because of your actions.

Lie all you want to the people in your life now, but we both know what happened.

We both know you are not the “Christian” you claim to be.

We both know what you’ve done.

The door is closed, return to your own hell.