Monday, January 23, 2012
Until There IS No More
Today I am guest posting at The Mindstorm, where the lovely Chrisa has given me a space to discuss the challenges of raising a child with mental illness. Come and give it a read!
Saturday, January 14, 2012
A Pocket Full of Thistles
It was one of those moments. You know the ones, when you are flying through life with a pocket full of promises and a head full of dreams. It is always those moments that steal your breath with dizzying happiness, when your hair blows in the wind from the roots and your soul whispers your most secret hopes to your heart. It is always when you are caught up in the expanse of life - when you can see clearly the endless blue sky - when your feet are solidly planted one in front of the other - that something turns. Suddenly everything seems different, although you cannot put your finger on it. Something has shifted beneath your weight, knocking you off balance.
It is funny how something can look so completely different when you only turn it over in your hand. A slight flick of the wrist. The thing is, you really never know what you'll find on the underside. Good, bad or indifferent. Now I know that some people resist looking for the other side of things. Some prefer the silver lining, others thrive in the tarnish. I've always thought myself to be one who considers all sides. Who contemplates across the landscape. I really do not know if I intentionally refused to turn over the penny, or if I really thought I had. If ever a Wiz there was, indeed. Like milk down the paper funnel, perceptions slip through my fingers into nothing.
No matter how many times I reach into the top hat, I come up empty handed. No solid truths, and no damn bunny. Ever.
I unwittingly stumbled into the thistles, and I've been trying to ease them out of my skin ever since. Like a jumble of life size puzzle pieces, I've been pushing on the sides and trying to make them fit into a logic. I tell myself that I am not invested in the actual truth, but like a scientist, interested only in the process of making one fit. But deep down I know that isn't true. It can't be.
It can only be part of the process, because eventually, I will have to view the bigger picture it creates. And I will have to draw some conclusion. I will have to decide if somewhere in the bricks I place; heavy, unyielding, and real; there is room for a door.
And if there is, whether it is an entrance, or an exit?
If anyone is looking for me, I'll be under the oak tree, pulling on the threads to that magic curtain and waiting for the big reveal.
It is funny how something can look so completely different when you only turn it over in your hand. A slight flick of the wrist. The thing is, you really never know what you'll find on the underside. Good, bad or indifferent. Now I know that some people resist looking for the other side of things. Some prefer the silver lining, others thrive in the tarnish. I've always thought myself to be one who considers all sides. Who contemplates across the landscape. I really do not know if I intentionally refused to turn over the penny, or if I really thought I had. If ever a Wiz there was, indeed. Like milk down the paper funnel, perceptions slip through my fingers into nothing.
No matter how many times I reach into the top hat, I come up empty handed. No solid truths, and no damn bunny. Ever.
I unwittingly stumbled into the thistles, and I've been trying to ease them out of my skin ever since. Like a jumble of life size puzzle pieces, I've been pushing on the sides and trying to make them fit into a logic. I tell myself that I am not invested in the actual truth, but like a scientist, interested only in the process of making one fit. But deep down I know that isn't true. It can't be.
It can only be part of the process, because eventually, I will have to view the bigger picture it creates. And I will have to draw some conclusion. I will have to decide if somewhere in the bricks I place; heavy, unyielding, and real; there is room for a door.
And if there is, whether it is an entrance, or an exit?
If anyone is looking for me, I'll be under the oak tree, pulling on the threads to that magic curtain and waiting for the big reveal.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Last Year
Last night I read over the story of us. I traced the patterns of our words, the progression of our thoughts, and measured the distance of how hard we fell. You promised you would catch me, and at every juncture I see your arms cradled around my heart.
I fingered the old wounds we came with, now scarred over. They are the raised ribbons of the years without each other. They are a matched set. Like bookends, we mirror those hurts in each other. We see beneath the lined surface and understand that there is healing left to be done. With patience born of a thousand traumas, we spread our hands over our broken hearts and allow the circuit between us to form new beginnings.
How many times have we started over? I can see the stairs we have climbed, some leapt over in our reckless rush to each other, some tripped over painfully. Each time we have lifted our feet, we have moved together towards tomorrow, hands clasped and hearts smashing. Each time our feet landed, they crushed fear, anxiety, and old demons under our toes. And sometimes, one of us fell down. Always, ALWAYS, the other has sat patiently on that step, fingers outstretched to help the other find their way back. We cannot leave one another behind. We are old soulmates in broken bodies. Never again will we be abandoned or betrayed.
We have raised each other from the ashes time and time again, twisted and turned shards of each other into complete masterpieces. We developed the ability to look past the beautiful green irises and see the soul that lies beneath. We talk with our mouths, our skins, our hearts, and our souls. Sometimes we speak without words, and sometimes this is the greatest gift of all. There is great peace that comes with sharing one thought, one understanding, one worry between us.
I didn't know love before I knew you. I knew you before I can remember. You are my all, my everything. My past, present and future belongs to you.
With you.
In you.
I fingered the old wounds we came with, now scarred over. They are the raised ribbons of the years without each other. They are a matched set. Like bookends, we mirror those hurts in each other. We see beneath the lined surface and understand that there is healing left to be done. With patience born of a thousand traumas, we spread our hands over our broken hearts and allow the circuit between us to form new beginnings.
How many times have we started over? I can see the stairs we have climbed, some leapt over in our reckless rush to each other, some tripped over painfully. Each time we have lifted our feet, we have moved together towards tomorrow, hands clasped and hearts smashing. Each time our feet landed, they crushed fear, anxiety, and old demons under our toes. And sometimes, one of us fell down. Always, ALWAYS, the other has sat patiently on that step, fingers outstretched to help the other find their way back. We cannot leave one another behind. We are old soulmates in broken bodies. Never again will we be abandoned or betrayed.
We have raised each other from the ashes time and time again, twisted and turned shards of each other into complete masterpieces. We developed the ability to look past the beautiful green irises and see the soul that lies beneath. We talk with our mouths, our skins, our hearts, and our souls. Sometimes we speak without words, and sometimes this is the greatest gift of all. There is great peace that comes with sharing one thought, one understanding, one worry between us.
I didn't know love before I knew you. I knew you before I can remember. You are my all, my everything. My past, present and future belongs to you.
With you.
In you.
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