berries and honey

the world has been an odd friend.
when it changed my perspective of myself, i made it my feared ally.
i would cozy up to it
like one might to a bear
when trapped together.
if it was only you and her
in a cage or in acres of forest
with no escape,
you would try first to hide
then move slowly so she wouldn’t notice.
lonely with her.
one night your breathing matched
and you knew she knew you were there.
so you get close
in case she ends up protecting you
or making you her cub.
what if she gives you berries and honey
instead of shredding your skin?
what if she pulls you in with her heavy fur self
instead of coming down on your neck?
what if she leads you through the forest
instead of batting you around as you die from worn out fear?
what if she believes you can climb trees
and catch fish with your hand?
what if she sees herself in you,
fur and flesh becoming the same?
cozy up to this bear world,
capable of ruining you and saving you.
imagine the what ifs,
the honey on your chin,
the smiling eyes of the beast,
the lumbering through a slanted sun woods,
the enveloping warmth that swells with her breath,
her weight increasing with every inhale.
the protection.
the companionship.
the quiet exchanges.
then with time test her.
make her a fire and mash the berries into a sauce.
pick her wildflowers and tuck one behind her ear.
rub her back and pull the burrs she can’t reach.
arrange stones in a path to her cave.
make her a crown of ivy and periwinkle and climb on a stump to reach her.
give her gifts she could never give herself.
close your eyes,
smell the smoke,
feel her breath passing through primal fangs,
feel your fingers tender from the burrs,
swallow again the last sweetness,
close your eyes and lean in
to your odd friend, capable.

alone but not


what it’s like.

our three baby chicks are put together in a box. maybe never having known each other until now, they huddle together, three heads each working to get under another one’s wing. they find the light and huddle under it. too cold or scared or new to sit down, they sleep standing up. for a moment they are all asleep, then one peeps and the other two wake up. for another moment they are all asleep, then one teeters and the other two wake up. for a moment they are all scratching around on their own, then one cheeps and the others come running. for a moment they are all in the cage, then one flies out and they all call. in piercing long calls, the one out of the cage calls, another one flies to the ledge and calls, another one is left behind and calls. all desperate for each other, not sure who should make the next move.

there were three girls coming and going from an apartment down the street that someone was moving out of. they must be the grandchildren or friends or the daughters of a cleaning woman. i walked my route and on the way home saw them ahead of me on the sidewalk. they must have permission to go to the park, they were probably bored, the youngest one getting in the way. i was gaining on them and saw how it was: the youngest one was no more than four. she had on a long dress and shoes so dainty she could have been barefoot. she stopped every few feet, poking at this, picking up that. i never saw her face, her long hair acting as a veil. no one talked to her or told her what to do. the middle one must have been seven. she looked straight ahead, eyes on where they were going. she stopped when the little one stopped, i never saw her face either. the oldest one was about 13. she looked ahead and behind and all around. she stopped every time the little one stopped. she stood vigil to her play and kept the coast clear. i knew she had seen me, i knew the others hadn’t. i didn’t want me or my dog to give them anything else to do. but before i could make my move to cross the street, the oldest one picked up the littlest one, making eye contact with me. and as though looking in a mirror, i sheepishly smiled and waved at them, my voiced “hi” no more than a whisper. with barely the raise of her fingers she waved back.

i lift the stump, wanting to create a half circle around the fire with stump seats for five. without thought, i utter an apology. they are scattering franticly. on the bottom of the stump, on the ground beneath, with no regard for the now split tunnels they used to travel. in seconds they’ve moved up and out and around me. the very moment i lifted the stump, it was too late to put it down. things had immediately changed. to stay alive the stump couldn’t be set down where had been even one second before. their own stump would kill them if i put it back.

i’m on the road and one lone bird sits on the wire. i see her and since i like to believe she sees me, i telepathically thank her for being there. i practice my quiet walking in hopes i don’t startle her off. triumphantly, i get right beneath her, then she goes. and then she stops again, on the wire a few feet ahead. then i get beneath her, and then she goes. and then she stops. and then i get beneath. and then she goes. and then she stops. and then i get beneath. and we walk like this for a magically long time. and then i look at her. say thank you outloud and then she goes. all the way.

i’m on another sidewalk and see i’m parallel to a deer in the field, a well traveled two lane street between us. she’s way out there, but we see each other, and both start walking north. she has a limp. i call my husband because someone should know. i keep her pace. she stops. i stop. look at each other. she limps forward, i keep her pace. she stops. i stop. look at each other. again with keeping her pace, stopping, looking. again. and then i decide to stop watching. i can see out of the corner of my eye she’s limping forward. she stops. i keep going. i like to think she made it to the tree line.

this is what it’s like. fragmented parts of me nudging each other, leaning on each other, falling on each other, keeping each other awake. parts of me oblivious in created safety, parts of me focused on the task at hand, parts of me vigilant, looking everywhere at once. watching, keeping pace, catching up, exposed and scattered with no option to go back. alone but not.

the chicks have grown for a few weeks. the heat lamp is gone. they push their bedding out of the way and are content on the cardboard. my tip-toeing into the dark kitchen to start the coffee doesn’t wake them anymore. now they sleep splayed out, heads awkwardly to the side. alone but not.



by Kirsten Dierking

What if a sleek, grey-feathered nuthatch
flew from a tree and offered to perch
on your left shoulder, accompany you

on all your journeys? Nowhere fancy,
just the brief everyday walks, from garage
to house, from house to mailbox, from
the store to your car in the parking lot.

The slight pressure of small claws
clasping your skin, a flutter of wings
every so often at the edge of vision.

And what if he never asked you to be
anything? Wouldn’t that be so much
nicer than being alone? So much easier
than trying to think of something to say?

wake up and do it


“so you wake up…and that’s what you do,” she said to me. i had just rambled my heart loose while sipping gin from a repurposed salsa jar. “yeah, i guess i do,” i said to her.

words from hymns taunt me and strip me of hope.
the smell of dial soap closes my eyes.
the tag line on public radio, “think about it dot org,” furrows my brow.
hair rollers. old school video games.
maggots. milk. pickles.
lionel richie. sade. nude panty hose. vinegar.
butter knives. spoons. string. the movie airplane.
pictures of white furniture in a white room. incense cones.
pepsi. benson and hedges. jeopardy.
bass pulsing. sirens. cracks in asphalt. ice cream trucks.
yogurt. black beans. bandanas.
white hotel sheets. forced air coming on.
red carpet. blue carpet. judy blume books.
rat tail combs. converse shoes. american flags.
coffee stir sticks. milk in cartons. mushrooms.
roll away beds. bunk beds. michael jackson. hot tubs.
white dogs. black dogs. chain link fence.
blankets over windows. above ground pools. pull out couches.
yellow linoleum. baseball bats. watermelon candy.
stained glass. pink industrial soap. weeping willow trees.
peace signs. wood glue. tang.
green vans. cartoons. fried chicken.
overpasses. neglected yards. plastic riding toys.
quarters on a sidewalk. bananas. stop signs. upholstered chairs outside.
cars driving slower than the speed limit. cars driving faster.
people walking with plastic grocery bags.
new pencils. metal lunchboxes. tina turner.
crossing busy streets on foot. kmart. heavy breathing.
looped extension cords. fat white men. uncovered mattresses.
grainy movies. polyester comforters. sound systems with glass doors.
45 records. microwaves. tears for fears. the outsiders.
the color blue. boxes. tube tops. tents. marigolds.
green peppers. maple trees. lightning bugs.
charcoal grills. white undershirts. highways.
the words karma, blessed, unconditional, just,
all powerful, all loving, protector.

my heart rate increases with every line. my body literally moves in a new direction, anywhere to get my mind away from the trigger. and now i stop. stay still while moving. breathe while freezing. ride the wave while fighting. will myself to soften. melt. open. let it move through. see what it’s about.

hear your son tell you they played jeopardy in school and let yourself remember: remember the time you walked through the covered window house and stopped at the doorway where the obese mom was in bed, skin flopping over the mattress sagging under her weight, smoking, a full ashtray next to her, watching jeopardy. remember looking at her, different than your own mom, with toe nails yellow and so long they curved around to meet the fleshy pads below. remember her smiling at you with weird eyes and then yelling at her daughters. remember spending the night in that house, sleeping in the living room on the floor, the blue glow of the tv suddenly lighting the room giving life to rape depicted by a fat white man with brown hair and a screaming blond woman. remember going back to play there again.

coffee is poured, sun’s coming in, toasted bread with pieces of hazelnut just popped up, reach in the kitchen drawer for a butter knife and let yourself remember: remember the metal on your throat. remember the brown and yellow kitchen floor under you. remember the counter out of the corner of your eye holding kool-aid and white bread and burning incense. remember his arms and legs strong with anger holding you down. remember not understanding what you did wrong, remember him saying he wanted to kill you. remember your friend screaming for him to stop. remember going back to play again and again.

come home from work, full and tired, free the baby from her car seat and bring her to breast, escaping her for a moment, milk sprays and let yourself remember: remember the magazines in their bathroom. remember wondering why all those people were all naked together and why there was milk over them. remember more magazines and the movies and the brown textured carpet.

listen to high schoolers talk about relationships, decent and balanced and let yourself remember: remember wishing your high school boyfriend would beat you so then you wouldn’t owe him anything. remember thinking you’d have a big balance in the virtual bank of transactions. remember that he never came close to hurting you and never said you owed him a thing.

walk down a friend’s narrow stairway and remember. go to a bluegrass festival, see a canvas tent and remember. see stained glass and remember. put food in your grocery cart and remember. get utensils for snack time and remember. watch tv in a dark room and remember. cross an abandoned parking lot and remember. go to church and remember. this is my work.

i wake up and remember and wait to feel. i remember things as though they are happening right in front of me and feeling never comes. i’m there, resigned to the moments. is that part of me still safely hidden too far away? or did she leave so quickly there was no feeling absorbed? or was there a divine something that swooped in and protected my heart, gloved hands around it or even a metal cage that would have to be dismantled some day, but was worth it? was there a great mother who decided i needed my eyes and ears to keep track, but my heart was off limits? was there a great father who decided to morph ahead and behind to smooth the way so it would take almost nothing to exist? did the shell of me walk through only to report back and make new plans for safety? remember you weren’t all there.

so those triggers: the signs and objects and songs and words, the gross perversions of everyday things. i wake up and decide to do it again. allow myself to see them and notice what simmers in me. some days it feels like an interesting experiment, exposing my active eyes and mind, my genius level of recall. some days it feels like a loud, slow rush, threatening to swallow me with mocking gulps.

they are opportunities to heal. i believe with every remembering, i put it to rest. always a nearly effortless blink away from respite:  close eyes, lower shoulders, breathe, soften, melt, open.

then wake up and do it again.


anyone can slay a dragon, she told me, but try waking up every morning & loving the world all over again. that’s what takes a real hero. -brian andreas



the following piece is my description of coping with revictimization. growing up in an impoverished community, i looked for safety from as early on as i can remember. then it got personal through molestation, my body violated by four people … Continue reading



no feeling is final.

so, did you just remember these things?

the question jarred me the first time. how strange. i couldn’t fathom having been free from the memories. i’ve always remembered. i’ve not been reminded of anything new in this past year. i wrote a list of “these things” and they filled a paper, starting with a neat list, evolving into double columns, ending with words scrawled sideways around the holes intended for a binder.

i’m a time machine that can travel back to any number of memories. i can feel how i felt. i remember if my stomach was flopping or if my limbs were draining or if my head was dizzy or if my heart was racing. i can feel myself with frozen body. i can see where i was and where i was looking, though i don’t know what i saw and i never remember where i went right after. i can see as much of the room as a photograph could capture. i’m always at the center.

now i’m a shape shifter, heading back into those memories and i, warrior-like, join the scene and interrupt with love and comfort and protection for all. all in the picture see the light. all are transformed. starting with the most scared one and ending with the most blind one. memory by memory, detail by detail. the journey of re-membering.

i’ve been deep in intention to feel and heal. i welcome truths revealed, even when they cause my eyebrows to crinkle deepening my 40 year old lines. even when my breath reduces to barely visible shallow wisps and my eyes dart around looking for something to ground me. these aren’t memories revealed, these are beliefs i didn’t know i believed, feelings i didn’t know i felt, buried in a ring around my heart.

i remember, i said. i even remember the details, i said.

for that entire page worth of memories, i can see the details. each is like a photograph, though sometimes like a movie clip…no longer than the 15 second ones now allowed on instagram. but mostly photos. usually the standard 3.5X5 size, but sometimes square, sometimes even a fancy panoramic, encircling the entire memory. they are so vivid to me, i have to remind myself that no one else can see them. i see the room, what i was wearing. i see the what was on the floor and what the curtains looked like. i see the blanket and how far open the door was. i see the chairs behind me and who was in them. i see the posters on each of the 4 walls. i see the booths around me and who is in each. i see myself talking, i see myself walking away, i see my self. and even if it’s a snapshot, i smell my surroundings and hear the background noises. like in an amplified tunnel i hear bat-like. i hear more than i thought i could. my heartbeat so loud it pulses the light. the smells so strong they have a color. i see my feet, sometimes barefoot, sometimes covered. i see my limbs. i see my hair, either long and straight down my back or feathered back over my ears. i see my eyes. i feel them too. i see where they are looking but not what they see. i feel them in the sockets but they are still like marbles.

you remember your eyes, she said. you remember seeing, you mean.

no, i see my eyes.

how could you see your own eyes?

with a bit of annoyed confidence i tell her: uh, because i’m above it or sometimes behind it, because i see everything like a snapshot, like a birds eye view…………..oh, shit.

i revealed my own truth. disassociation. years later and this word just now connects to me. of course. all my memories, easy and hard, i’m both outside of and in. i remember the distinct moments of leaving, when it got to be too much or the risk was too great. open the wings and release. fear leaving you. i flew up so effortlessly. up and out. blessed be, there was always enough wind to catch my wings and allow me to hover. fly. f.l.y.

my dad wrote me a song when i was a baby. i’ve never thought of it as directive. i’ve never connected it. you’ve got to fly on your own little wings, oh baby fly high. and when you get tired, i want you to know i’ll be flying a little ways behind….

i allow myself to feel tired now…i rest and daydream, laugh and say things without thinking. i’ve flown in a tight circle for years, never allowing myself to leave completely. i never flew off and left for good. i worked air and muscle to stay just out of fear’s way. now i practice landing. landing back into that body that now is safe. remembering that small body that loved soft things and didn’t mind getting dirty. that body that ran fast enough to win the 50 yard dash. that body that numbed everything, even true pleasure. landing back into my skin, the same little marks i’ve had my whole life and the scars i made myself. landing back with freedom to rewrite history and imagine intervention. landing back and breathing while i look around. landing back and staying with it, labor like. landing back and noticing only what i can see from my body’s point of view. landing back and noticing.


the temptation to fly is strong at times. the wings barely raise and wind tugs them open. it takes strength to tuck them back in. it would be so easy to let the breeze carry me.

so, time machine activated, shape shifting engaged, wings folded in, all systems go, i land and stay the course.

february 4, 2014




feathers and fur


the feathers, lighter than dust and dog hair and glitter and toast crumbs and bits of string and a penny and a stick and dirt, create mini tornadoes around my broom. they flutter above and beyond the gathering pile, no promise of where they will land. i hold my breath, not wanting to ingest the remnant of her fear, her moment of being toyed with.

what i thought was our cat’s call to come inside was really his call to show his pride, his hunger satisfied, his skills honed. i admit i shut the door to the kitchen, allowing him the space to eat his prey. then the what-ifs played in our minds. the what ifs were it. the bird was alive. out went the cat, out went the clothespins, a basket freed, in went the towel, in went the bird, on goes the time.

it’s easier today. i can see the baby bird for what she is. i can see her separate from me. i can see her nestled on a bed of a tea towel that i embroidered some road trips ago. i see my son glance down at her now and then, not afraid to stand vigil to her death, not afraid to imagine her survival. he is her witness. i am not the bird.

it’s easier today. i don’t feel like my feathers were plucked. i don’t feel like parts of me are escaping under the loose floorboards of the kitchen. i don’t feel sore from being batted around. i don’t feel numb from the transfer between dirt ground to 70s linoleum to cotton nest. i remember that i know how to feel those things. i re-member my self. i breathe in love and breathe out fear.

it’s easier today. not long ago it was harder. it was about a rabbit.

from a distance they saw the cat, barely moving, engaged, a baby rabbit pinned between paws. balancing the natural order of things and the child’s empathic heart, i listened to his slow string of calm and rational reassurance:

don’t worry, the bunny will be fine. look…he’s not really biting, he’s not going to kill her, it’ll be fine, there isn’t even any blood, there won’t even be a mark, she’ll be able to get away, he’s just messing with her, they do that sometimes, it’ll be fine, she’ll be able to get home, no, no, no, she’s not dead, she’s just really still, she’s just scared, wait-look! he let her go! see? she’s fine. she’s okay! she can still run, oh, she’s fast, he’s not even chasing her, she’ll get home, i bet she lives close by, imagine the mama bunny waiting, it’ll be fine, she will get home, i bet she’s almost there, look at her go, she knows where to go, remember…he didn’t really hurt her, there isn’t even a mark, she’s fine, and no one will even know what happened.

it was harder then, i knew that rabbit. i felt markless and scared and fake brave and watched and talked about and left to my own devices and messed with and stupid for being so scared…after all, they weren’t going to kill me, they were going to let me go, i had people waiting for me at home, i lived really close, i was always almost home, no one could tell what happened.

downy feathers and tufts of hair left behind, carried by the air, no promise where they would land.

and now, in the hour since i started writing, he noticed the bird died, took her to the sleepy flowerbed, washed his hands, proclaimed her the cutest he’d seen, carried on with his screen time. i will refill my coffee, add a splash of cold cream, then find a broomless way to gather every feather from every corner. my dog will follow behind, knowing something happened.

january 11, 2014

a year ago




a year ago today the floodlights came on: buzzing overly bright, harsh, blue toned. a year ago today i walked to the mailbox, in wool socks acting as slippers. flipping through as i walked i saw your letter. decades of practice kept me serene: “why is he sending me a christmas card?” pause, open.

it was not a card.

it was a piece of paper folded like we’re taught: in thirds and then across so it’s just a bit smaller than the envelope. i unfolded it enough to see that it was typed. my heart took turns stopping and racing. i sped read even though i already knew what it said.

a year ago today you told me my story. a year ago today you wrote the details of moments that i’ve never told. a year ago today you exposed something i had spent decades hiding. a year ago today you named your actions, calling them something so much worse than i ever allowed myself to think. you put me in a category i didn’t think i deserved. a year ago today you redefined my past, jesting my years of dismissal and rationalization. and on that sidewalk, in that instant, memories before you and after you were reassigned to this new category.


i told my husband the story he’d already heard but never knew. i told a friend, sitting in her van watching our kids slip on a frozen pond. i told two more, my words falling like a boulder on the table set with birthday cake and soup. i told people who I just met. I told people who knew us both. i told my children. i told my parents. i told and concentrated to stay standing in the light.

every day for the past year has been a simultaneous descent back and march forward. every day i’ve held a steel eyed focus on something i can’t see. candles, pills, meditation, eye squinting realizations, deep laughter, second guessing, exercise, mothering, responding, relationship shifts, accepting responsibility for too much and not enough, breathing, pleas for the fear to leave, waiting, learning. every week therapy with free flowing language and fierce advocacy and soul shifting questions. every week the opportunity to teach and learn the existence of an apparently all powerful, all knowing, all loving god. every week moving me through the alphabet with 40 young ones in a space that i’ve built as a temple for their dignity.


every moment a three pronged attack: stay in the present, allow the old wounds, actively make choices. breathe in light, breathe out pain, keep on. repeat.

you turned on the floodlights. and i kept them on.

trembling in the light. not sure where to look. shame surfacing and leaking from every pore. betrayed again. revictimized again. the numb places zinging. watching others’ anger while i got used to my story coming from someone else. i listened: stay on path. and i walked. lit up. going places. pausing to purge and growl. leaving grief in a vile mound on the road. bringing more to light. and more. and more. and more. stay on path. lift and repeat.


when i was little i would go to bed and imagine myself as a baby carried along through all the same moments of the day i’d just had. at the same time i was my current self taking care of the baby me. it always worked out. it was always perfect. that baby was always safe and happy and no one even knew she was there. win-win.

a couple of years ago i took care of a baby for an afternoon. he clinged to me while pushing away, a frantic calm. he was dressed in layers, buttons not matching up, leaving a tail in the front. his eyes were unfocused but darting. and he smelled horrible. vomit on his shirt could be cleaned. food in his hair could be brushed out. sticky candy on his shoes could be pounded off. heavy diaper could be changed. he still stank. hidden filth i couldn’t find. i imagine it was in the crevices, the tender folds of baby skin. the places that can’t be seen no matter how many lights are on. the places that will stay hidden until pushed back, or held open, or lifted up, or pressed in, or pulled out, or cleansed by fingertips covered with a warm milk and honey soaked washcloth carefully running the length of the crease. rinse and repeat.


i would have cleaned every corner of his body. i would have nodded at his cries, my head tilted to the side. i would have crooned at his whimpers, “i know. i know. i know. i’m sorry. i know.” i would have watched his eyes, noticing a split second of eye contact, where he recognized my intention. i would have noticed a squint of pain and adjusted my movement. i would have watched his eyebrows for crinkling. i would have watched his forehead for moments when it grew in relaxation. i would have watched his hands, how his fingers straightened and flexed in response to touch. i would have watched the dip between his chin and collar bone to determine his breathing. i would have checked his legs, tickled the dirty knee caps that proved time outside. i would have made sure the room was warm, the light was soothing, the curtains open. i would have given him a drink of water from a clear glass cup that he would bite down on with his baby teeth and when he smiled at his little trick, water would escape his face. i would have noticed his disregard for the plastic toys danced in front of his face and offered him a metal teaspoon. i would have picked him up, wrapped in a towel, and walked him to the window so we could look for a birdie or the clouds or moving tree limbs. i would have asked him what he saw. i would have waited for his eyes to track the movement of nature and then I would have said, “yes.” i would have cuddled him even while he stank. the crustiness of his hair not stopping my strokes. the layers of everywhere he’d been under his nails not keeping his hands from exploring my face. breathing in the sweet sour stale pungent foulness only increasing my love for him. i would have taken as long as needed to get him back to himself. to rid him of the evidence. to relax his senses. to wake up the places that have numbed. to love the places unknown.

it’s one thing to shine a light. it’s another thing to keep it on. and another thing yet to work with it.


-december 29, 2013



a steady stream of life pulls to the now: suppers cooked, leaves raked, laundry done, children read, games played, meditations taken, candy eaten, jobs worked, cheers led, hot drinks sipped, cold drinks gulped, friends beckoned, family welcomed, 4h attended, chickens loved, fires tended, hair dyed, cat cuddled, dog skunked, art created, spirit called, birthdays celebrated, phones charged, computers used, treats had, alarms set, blankets piled, messes embraced, rules enforced, music made, babies held, evidence found, treasures noticed, actions chosen, minds shifted, prayers pleaded, silence requested, stars counted, moon sized, sun bathed, moments captured.






20131125-193457.jpg{cover all}


20131125-193543.jpg{not helpful}


20131125-193607.jpg{lips and beak}




20131125-194114.jpg{like ten years ago}



20131125-194826.jpg{new friend}


20131125-195257.jpg{time warp}
20131125-195334.jpg{cleaned up}
20131125-195354.jpg{resting spot}
20131125-195420.jpg{left over}
20131125-195428.jpg{cleverness found}

trusting that the moments are enough.

20131125-200939.jpg {skunked}

allow me the fantasy

it’s funny how i can move through my days, cooking, dishes, teaching, laundry, driving, reading, walking, when out of the blue a bit of writing bubbles up.  usually it starts as a mantra. today the mantra was “allow me the fantasy.” as the story came alive, the old shame reels countered each victorious imagined reality. and as i’ve learned, the antidote for shame is empathy.  i’m grateful for this space to share and show more of myself. every note, message or word i get from someone sharing their story or dousing mine with empathy makes some of that victory real. thank you.

so tonight i allow myself to share again from the uncomfortable, awkward, horrific, all too common, mysterious place i’m in.


allow me the fantasy

allow me. allow me the fantasy that can be debunked and disproved. allow me the fantasy that fills me with a quiet knowing like i’ve never known. allow me the fantasy that shifts my body to a warrior-like stance, a smile sneaking out. allow me the fantasy that my experiences had purpose.

allow me the fantasy that i’ve been a cohort with the divine.

allow me the fantasy that i’ve been a conduit for love. that i’ve been chosen. that i’ve been determined fit for the job. that i’ve been part of a tireless cosmic evil-trapping.  that i was trained in the womb and began working on the day of my birth.

allow me the fantasy that i couldn’t understand, so it filled me with terror. i couldn’t understand, but every slow touch released another’s pain. every threat released another’s fear. every quick grab released another’s anger.  every lingering hand released another’s loneliness. that unbeknownst to my mortal child mind, i lured it in and held it captive: pain, fear, anger and loneliness.

allow me the fantasy that my alertness has had purpose. that when i sensed danger in someone and breathed in, i really did take their fear and make love.  that by staring into the left eye of someone, i really did see their soul.  that when i wanted to, i really did turn invisible. that when i looked directly at animals and babies, we really did understand each other. that when i pulled the exact number of straws needed, i really was honing my skill of synchronicity.

allow me the fantasy that when things get harder, it’s because i really am stronger. allow me the fantasy that when i get stronger, darkness really does try harder. allow me the fantasy that fighting the dark is easy. allow me the fantasy that way back when, my fleeing outran darkness, my freezing interrupted darkness, my charming confused darkness.

allow me the fantasy that i was a dead end for the evil. that it came to me, entered me and couldn’t leave.  allow me the fantasy that i was the one who captured it and kept it safe, releasing the offender and protecting the world.

allow me that.

allow me that so i can face all that is in me.

allow me.

it makes it easier to feel the pain.

it makes it easier to fight back.

it makes it easier to lose the shame.

and allow me the moment when i move on knowing this may just be a fantasy.

one way or another, pain to power, dark to light, lead to gold.

working for love

20131109-102007.jpgi remember a public television documentary about dogs. every day when the dog would hear the mail carrier coming to the door, she would bark like crazy. the mail carrier would drop the mail in the slot and leave. the dog believed it was her barking that made the mail carrier leave. every day.

this is familiar. i see clearly, almost too clearly even through squinted eyes, how i believed i made things happen every day. if i was good enough, good things happened (begging the painful obvious: if i was bad enough, bad things happened). suddenly it makes more sense to me why living in a home filled with love and good intentions fits into my story. i believed that the hugs, the handmade toys, the homemade suppers, the songs written about me, the prayers said for me, the stitched quilts, the smiles, the eye contact, the love was something i earned. no one told me this, no one threatened it to be taken away, i just knew it. but like the dog, i didn’t know that they were going to do those things anyway. they loved me anyway. they would feed me anyway. they would pile blanket after blanket on top of me anyway. they would light the kerosene lantern on stormy nights anyway. he would smile at me during his concert anyway. she would rub my back during church anyway. they loved me anyway.

oh the bliss-denying, kingdom-defying moment of unconditional love being swung to side of conditional.

but how else could a child make sense of the quiet, leave-no-trace abuse magnified by a community full of poverty and crime and injustice? if she does nothing to cause her harm, then there is nothing she can do to prevent it. bad things can’t just happen, there has to be a reason. there has to be something to control. there has to be something to bark at. there has to be. or the mail carrier won’t leave.

so the switch is made. life and love and safety are conditional. unfortunately, pain and violation and fear are conditional too. and more unfortunate is the child who sees no action to result in the abuse, she knows without knowing she knows that she didn’t actually do anything to deserve the abuse…therefore it goes deeper than behavior…it goes to the core of who she is. so for this child, earning love is quite powerful. if she can actually earn love, she earns a greater potential to be safe. if she can actually earn love, others won’t realize the bad hidden in her. if she can actually earn love, she can believe she is worth love.

under this plan, i was almost 100% successful. the barking worked almost 100% of the time. i barked with brushed hair and people-pleasing smiles and no complaining and good works and neat handwriting and creativity and kindness to strangers and generous giving and listening ears and a chameleon like awareness of others’ desires.

i’ve heard it said that love is something if you give it away…you end up having more.

i will reclaim these amazing skills i learned. i will perch that little one in me on my shoulder and ask her to remind me how to wow the world. how did you work for love? i want to keep barking kindness and self care and choice. not to get love, but to give love.

so if there is nothing i can do to earn it, then there is nothing i can do to lose it, which means it already is and was and will be.

i’m waiting to know this in my heart, not just my well skilled mind.