full circle sacred™ 600 words on grace

Grace.

We use the word to describe something ineffable, some beneficent force that moves into and through our lives - carrying boons to in some way avert calamity or rescue us from suffering.

What happens, then, when we consider its source?  Where does Grace actually come from?

There’s a tendency in western thought to assign Grace to an action taken by God on one’s behalf - by the Grace of God this or that did or did not take place.  

I’d like to propose this inquiry… might it be somewhat more participatory?

“Bad” things happen to people who don’t “deserve” it all the time, and nefarious individuals go through cycles of gain and praise.

So it can’t simply be that to behave in a certain way garners grace, as if meritorious acts could be accumulated in order to earn “grace points”.

Studying the presence of Grace in the Eastern traditions, my then-professor Douglas Brooks asked us to consider these three points about Grace:

You can’t ask for it, you don’t deserve it, you can’t pay it back.

Let’s unpack this from the middle, as many psyches will lock in on that middle phrase and refuse to go further… what does it mean that you don’t DESERVE Grace?  

Aren’t we deserving of everything the universe has to offer?  Isn’t the whole point of achieving human existence, to bask in the immensity of all that is good and gracious and beneficial?  

Let us understand that it is not a question of whether we are worthy or “ok-enough” to participate in Grace; rather it is that there is no way for any one person to become more worthy than any other person.  In other words, Grace does not respond to a merit system -it is oncoming to all individuals with equal velocity at all times, like a wind that blows in the face of Saints as well as the most wretched, unaffected by the disparity in their countenances.

That you can’t pay Grace back may seem obvious.  Still, the idea takes on a depth that quiets the heart in earnest contemplation… that there is a beneficent force working in our favor and we are helpless to repay it because - well, in order to repay something there has to be acknowledgement of debt.  Grace is issued from itself- there is no gap between the beneficence and its source, so it is not giving anything away… it is just flowing ceaselessly ever outward, like a spring in the earth… how can you put water back into a flowing spring?  It’s not possible.  Likewise with Grace.  One of the surest ways to uncover one’s indwelling sense of humility is to contemplate this aspect of Grace.

Coming Full Circle to consider the beginning, what does it mean that you can’t ask for Grace?  Isn’t it part of our nature to call upon Grace during times of need, distress, or significance?

The very premise of prayer hangs on the notion that Grace is somehow responsive to our imploring.  And yet… we return to the observation that some prayers go (seemingly) unanswered.

Let’s return to the image of Grace as a blowing wind, moving equally across all in its path (picture rocks, for example).  Is it possible, through petition or sheer force of will, to divert a stream of that wind toward one object more intensely than those surrounding it?

Here’s the participatory part:

What would happen if one of the objects developed an opening - an aperture that Grace could flow through rather than onto/over/around?

How might this contemplation inform our expectations?  The way we orient ourselves?

I will be publishing a series of blog posts under the heading "Full Circle Sacred".

This is a separate enterprise from blue circle press, and is in the process of being trademarked in anticipation of future publications.

A full circle sacred blogspot is in the making, though there were some initial snags with the setup and I find myself urged to post before the official platform is ready.

So!  The urgings will be satisfied for now by posting here under the Full Circle Sacred heading, and the rest will work itself out according to a plan that's still being revealed (and which has my full, if bewildered, cooperation).

Socially Awkward Teen

Very recently I reconnected with an old friend from high school.  Washing dishes this afternoon, I wonder nearly out loud, "Did I ever tell her how much I liked her?".  My heart heaves, my brain feels cool to the touch.

I'm approaching my 47th winter, if you count the first one, during which I arrived.  I've only recently learned to make friends - in the manner of, "Hello, I like you.  I would like to play with you.  Do you want to come over?" sense of things.  I've  even more recently discovered that the reason I spent much of my 2nd grade in glass rooms with men in suits showing me inkblots very likely has something to do with what today's parents and teachers would recognize as Sensory Integrative Disorder.  Sometimes if you are talking to me and I appear to be ignoring you, it's not because I don't value you or even want to interact- it's because my sleeves are speaking louder than you are.  And they are telling me that my nervous system will go on strike if I don't adjust them- so I cannot hear you.

Add to that the tendency toward ADD-ness I've always already had, and a somewhat Aspergerian approach to social gatherings and interactions in general, and you're maybe not surprised that I was one of the "odd" kids in school.  But it was the 80's and that kind of aloof was actually cool in some circles, so it went unnoticed except in those cases where it was my 'signature'- a kind of 'weirder than thou' gesture of general disregard.

It is ironic then, looking back- to remember a teenage girl with such fondness.  I remember the moment of thinking, "Wow, I really enjoy being around her.  She's smart and hysterically funny and I always enjoy time we spend together.  But if I tell her so she will think I am coming on to her, and that would just be weird, so..."...

Fast forward to 30 years later.  I'm still not coming on to her, I still enjoy her just as much, and now I'm able to say so.

Hyperbole and a Half Brought Me Back

I'm back.

This morning, circumstances beyond my control landed me on the computer, in front of Blue Circle Press for the first time in more than a year.

You may notice I now actually OWN a blue circle- it's the drum under my arm in the picture, made for me by Scotty Ravendancer, who didn't even know about the blue circle thing at the time he made it.  In the picture I am collecting nature bits to use for ceremonially significant decor.

An odd string of circumstances brought me to this moment.  A person who is funny and also well-read, and whom I enjoy and admire (anyone who has written a book for 'tweens, about permaculture and sustainability is a winner in my world- plus if they are funny on top of it...) said to me about two weeks ago, "You would like Hyperbole and a Half, you should look it up".  This coming from a person whose recommendations about what I would find enjoyable or amusing are always spot-on.

So, early the next morning I googled the hyperbole entity and encountered a post called "Menace", about a wee child's discovery of absolute power, bestowed by a dinosaur costume but blamed by external forces (read: adults) on sugar surges.  Being new to the blog I had no gender context for the child in the costume, but identified absolutely with the side-splitting hysterics that come from calling our crazy out onto the page.  Like a play-by-play of "what-goes-on-in-that-head-of-yours", telling our "deep/dark" stories out loud and in full color often results in really, really funny stuff that just is really not-so-funny when it's happening.

On with the narrative: So, later I ran into the neighbor above me, whom I suspect I woke with my guffaws and can't-stop-laughing-to-breathe antics.  I said to her, "This morning I found a really funny- um, kind of a blog, kind of drawing, cartoonish but not..." and she interrupted me, saying, "Hyperbole and a Half?".  Apparently the kind of laughter that awoke her is a very specific kind of laughter, induced by initial exposure to the humor of Allie Brosh.  Amazed (but not as amazed as I was to be later) that she picked HaaH out of all the funny things in the universe that I DID know about the day before, I said yes.  She proceeded to tell me all about how Allie started a blog in 2009 and then disappeared for about a year and a half, returning only very recently with posts about her very real struggles with depression during the time of her absence.

WOW

striking a chord, striking a chord, striking a chord...

While it's not exactly Depression per-se that is at the root of my absence, it has been a spiraling sort of frenzy of all-the-other-things-that-somehow-become-more-important-than-doing-the-thing-that-makes-you-feel-like-you...
you know, work, building that home business, figuring out all the FREAKING TECHNOLOGY (yes I am kind of yelling, because my brain is not build for the technology and sometimes it completely short-circuits me)...

It's also got to do with the fact that there was a very strange dynamic between me and the person "in charge" of the writers' challenge that had me so up-and-at-'em a couple of years ago- so strange that, when the challenge ended and an exclusive group of members were invited to participate in an intensified experience, I had to seriously examine whether it was a good idea for me and this person to work together- especially considering I did not know whether THEY knew how strange our dynamic was (the relative anonymity of cyber-networking does have some dark twists in it).

I spent a great deal of time trying to figure out if it was kind, appropriate, and supportive to participate in something so personal and intensive with someone who was on the verge of doing something big for themselves, if my presence (and the potential weirdness that would come with it) would impact them or me in a negative way.  I tried really, really hard to be compassionate and real and consider it from all angles, and even reached out with a "would this be doable for you or would it be too weird?" sort of email.

Turns out they did know who I was, had known all along, and they were really a gross kind of a jerk about it, which soured my taste for the whole blogging experience, especially knowing that person was/is part of my "audience".

ANYWAY!

Knowing what I know now of Hyperbole and a Half (so funny it's even abbreviated "HaaH"), I was compelled to start back at the beginning, 2009.  Halfway through reading the posts for December of that year, I found myself suddenly lurching out of bed toward my computer because my phone (on which I'm reading the blog) won't let me comment.

I want to put a comment on her blog that says something like "I have a really funny story about taking a bus from Couer d'Alene Idaho too... how is that even possible?"  (It was really a bus TO Cd'A, but it was going the wrong way and I fell asleep and so didn't know the bus was going the wrong way until I woke up halfway to Coulee Dam - which apparently sounded like "Coeur d'Alene" to the driver... which is how I lost my job at Cloud 9, which is the original name of the restaurant -now called The Beverly- at the top of the Coeur d'Alene resort, when I was 17.)... the rest of the story sits waiting for another time (did I really think I could sleep unnoticed in the phone booth in Wilbur, Washington, waiting until morning for the bus going the right way?)...

Knowing that Allie gets comments that are "blog length" anyway, and that I was about to write one, I figured I'd just dust off the old blue circle and give it another whack.

After all, times are different now and I'm a different person now, and I know more about the rhythm of my manic-productive-episodes and what exactly a brain like mine needs and expects of me, so...

Here's to forging a new path, to routines (especially the morning kind!) and to finding humor where it lurks in the recesses of the mind (ever wonder why the wrinkles in the brain are called "convolutions"? Wonder No More).

Oh.  And.  When I made my way to the HaaH facebook page, there was one person I know who had already "liked" it before I even knew it existed:  the person I call my "child" even though I did not give birth to them, and even though they are now nearly 23 years old.  It just keeps getting better.

Pop's Rock

from Buddha's Playhouse, Breitenbush

Two days before my birthday I received an envelope from Ecuador.

I shook my head in a giddy sort of awe- my father had managed to send a birthday remembrance... not only on-time, but early- and from another hemisphere even!

I've learned to poo-pooh my birthday- falling as it does in the dead of winter and almost always when some hefty work or study project demands my attention, it has typically failed to command the bells-and-whistles sort of regard that I suppose, on some level, I used to long for.

See, there's a little girl in me who can be spunky, dauntless, and almost alarmingly independent.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, she's got a flip-side... there are times when she desperately, achingly needs to feel special, valued, and even adored- and this is rarely more evident than when the occasion of her birth marks another circuit around the sun.

There are reasons that this can be hard on the people around me...

One,  as the date gets closer it's hard to know which little girl you're going to get at any given moment (I'm fine one minute, and the next inexplicably but profoundly melancholy over some long-ago birthday gone awry).

Two, there's precious little in terms of material things that I really need or want.  I have little patience for knick-knacks, don't own anything that matches, and my interests are fairly esoteric and close to the earth (my mom sent a check and I bought a wooden crate with drawers to store herbal tinctures and a solar oven- who could intuit stuff like that?!?).  The only thing I really want is a piece of healthy land to live on and cultivate food and medicine, and I don't expect that'll land in my lap as a birthday surprise.

Three, in years past I have wavered idealogically over whether I find used and regifted items fun, funky, and practical- or whether the wee little girl needs to feel valued and special with something picked out just for her.

In the past few years my dad has endeavored to satisfy/pacify/gratify my birthday needs, without benefit of explanation as to why I needed/wanted/demanded for him to be present with me in ways I could not articulate or even comprehend.


His offerings (which were peppered for several years with a continually expanding family of rubber lizards, frogs, and geckos) were made, I can only imagine, in a sort of vacuum of unknowing and uncertainty as to how they'd be received.


A little backstory:
My dad was the young single parent of a pre-teen girl in the late 1970's.  Add to this equation the fact that our story unfolded against the backdrop of The Theatre community, and you will not be surprised to discover a tale full of big-D Drama. The time and our situation provided an entire panoply of opportunities for stresses and misfortunes in our relationship.

In the past couple of years, we have worked hard- and bravely- to step out of the mire of yesteryear and meet each other in the present tense.  In the past twelve months especially, Dad has surprised and impressed me with a series of small but earnest gestures- each giving us more space to call common ground.  I have been heartened.

Here comes the foreshadowing...
part one
This past summer, during a conference of women herbalists, I experienced a profound awakening around the experience of tribal drumming.  It bears telling in a post all its own someday, but for now let it suffice to say that it heralded a time of rich inquiry and discovery into the tales and traditions of indigenous peoples the world over (many of which point to similar considerations regarding 2012... ok, ok, another post.  Soon.)

I've been deeply affected by the shared perspectives among a number of Earth's original people- for instance, that there are no insentient beings but just different earth tribes with different purposes... the plant tribe, the insect tribe, the tree tribe... all working together in harmony to carry out cycles of birth, eating, dying, decay... from which comes new growth... of particular interest recently has been the stone tribe.


I recently read a retelling of a story shared by many tribes.  It says that since the stone tribe has been with the earth since it formed, its members have been entrusted with recording the history of everything that's ever taken place on the earth.  They are further charged with sharing the ancient wisdom with other beings (some of them human) who can benefit from (or better yet, serve the world community through) the knowledge thus shared.


foreshadowing part two
As an extension of the herbal conference mentioned above, I have undertaken a 10-part training in the Art and Science of Herbalism with Rosemary Gladstar (a celebrated grand-ma-ma of the herbal community).  In my present lesson I am focused on herbs that are described as "alteratives", which have among their actions a tendency to "purify the blood" through support of the liver and kidneys over an extended time.  One of the questions I've been wrapping myself around with relish has to do with why it seems to be that most alteratives are roots, that grow deep within the earth.  

As homework, I began devising a story in alignment with the indigenous traditions- that deep within the earth are the stone beings that live closest to the core of Mother Earth, and it is through the wisdom of those stones that the roots receive their instructions as to what healing benefits to offer those humans earnest enough to harvest, prepare, and consume the medicine.

scenic interlude... 
In the past eight months I have received postcards from my father in Mongolia, Helsinki, Jerusalem, Capetown and Galapagos.   He and his Long-Term Lady have embarked on a 13-month excursion with a backpack each, to experience an astonishing array of what this great blue globe has to offer by way of hostels, WoOFing (Work on Organic Farms- in exchange for room and board), and couch surfing.  

It was a matter of great good fortune that they both humored me in my desire to show them how to blog, mere hours before they left, because their recounting of their unfolding journey has been a source of immense delight, appreciation, and gratitude.  Through their generous sharing I have had a taste of amazing places from a very authentic perspective... South Africa, Sweden, Russia, France, Mongolia, the Dead Sea, Belgium, Spain, Jerusalem, Greece, the Andes... 

On the actual Day of my birthday the two intrepid travelers got on a raft at the headwaters of the Amazon, and off they went... I am eagerly awaiting that particular blogpost!  

"she'll be comin' round full circle..."
So.  I got this envelope from Ecuador.  It said not to open it until my birthday, and I reluctantly complied.  What could it be?  I poked, prodded, and pressed around the edges.  In deference to a tradition Dad and I made up when I was a kid, I hazarded a guess based on its size (about the size of a quarter, three-dimensional, irregular, and hard)... "it's a record!"  Nope.

The blessed morning finally dawned, and before I bustled out the door to a profusely demanding day I paused to tear open my little parcel.  Drum roll...

in my hands and in my heart

Out tumbled this little rock.  With one flat side, one concave and one convex, of slightly porous quality and a sense of deep saltiness (I can't describe why it feels that way, it just does), and sand-and-honey hue, it came with a little square of notebook paper explaining that it had approached him while he was in the Dead Sea- the lowest point on earth (Read: Closest to the Core of Earth Mother).  In one of the most celebrated healing places known to man, this rock had stood out to him... and he had felt compelled to ferry it on to me.

I paused.  I felt it.  Smelled it.  Held it to my heart.  Listened.


I felt a stirring inside as the salt in me rushed to meet the salt in the stone.  I wept sweet, sloppy tears for a moment- the tears of a girl who just got exactly what she wanted for her birthday, without ever having known she wanted it. 


Best. Birthday Tears. Ever.

 

Still, Deep in the Forest

From the Silent Spring

Much of me is still deep in the forest.  A week ago (to the minute, as it happens) I woke to the sunlight filtering in through the window in a tiny cabin with very little inside other than two very comfortable (thank you, thank you, thank you) beds.

I slipped on my sandals and pulled a hoodie over my sleep gear; Jenn still slumbered on but I had to pee- across the gravel path and two huts down I went, to the facilities.

It was raining.  I could tell because there was moisture on the brightly lit air and from the delicate percussive sounds coming from the trees that surrounded and hovered over me.  But not a drop came down on my head; the forest has long been in the habit of using this abundant moisture for its own ends, and no drop need be wasted on the humans here, who will just go get in the hot springs when they want to get wet.

Ahhh, Breitenbush.  The whole time I was a massage therapist in Seattle I would hear others extoll the virtues of Breitenbush hot springs as a vacation and/or retreat spot.  I longed for the days when I might be among the ranks of those who vacationed and/or retreated, and I must have unknowingly vowed that one day I, too, would soak this body in those steamy waters.

When we were originally planning the Oregon branch of our left-coast “whirlwind” tour, we fully expected to spend some time on the coast in between the ecovillages and communities we were going to explore.  But when Jenn said she’d found some hot springs deep in the woods I was intrigued.  When I realized she’d discovered Breitenbush all on her own, a number of things snapped into place inside me.  I can’t really put a finger on it, but I think I began a somewhat automated process of realigning with the Northwest.

There were many unexpected events in the earlier parts of our excursion, one of which resulted in us canceling all of our meticulously planned reservations and flying more or less by the seat of our pants- so it wasn’t until the day before we went that we knew for sure we could get there and that there would be a place for us.  So we did, and there was.

We spent the evening exploring the grounds and choosing which of the springs we’d soak in after dinner.  The height of the trees, the warmth of the sun, the sweetness of the breeze... the roaring of the river, the song of the birds, the absolute absence of any automated sounds WHATSOEVER...  the springy “give” of the forest floor, the huddled majesty of the pines and oaks soaring overhead, the unheard sound of the forest that reverberates just behind the breastbone in a deep baritone “whoosh”... conspired to take me several levels deeper into myself than I’ve been in years, outside of intentional meditation.

We spent time on the bridge overlooking the river and the modest geo-thermal plant that was built by the community and which supplies all of its electricity.  We watched tiny birds dart for bugs and “ominous birds” soar over the tree tops until the sun got to a certain angle, then we found the labyrinth, which I walked as the sun went down.
We soaked in the sacred tubs- three of them get progressively hotter and the third is to be enjoyed in silence.  The dark enveloped us a bit more with each experience; we were in the silent springs when the last light left the sky and we all became dripping silhouettes as we groped our way over the slippery stones toward the path.  We had to use our rented flashlight to find our way back.

The morning that I speak of now dawned raining and misty- stirring the soul in the way that only Northwest mist can do- and it was everything in our power not to miss our flight so we’d have to stay another day.  Next time, three days at least!

We said our reluctant farewells to this new favorite place and headed for the highway.  Fortunately the gatekeeper advised us that the more scenic North Cascades highway would get us there just as quickly as the major thoroughfares, so I had the distinct pleasure of introducing Jenn to this part of the country that I’ve loved for 30 years.  My dad and stepmom and I had driven the Washington portion of this road when I was in my wee-teens, and it was during that time that the Northwest began to seep into my bones.  I fancied I’d be a botanist or a forest ranger, that these magnificent pillars of needle and cone would be the home and cathedral for my expanding soul.

Of course those plans were waylaid, as public school and rebellion and the mis-spending of my youth took precedence over those beautifully innocent aspirations. 
And yet... and now... and how... can it be I’ve come full circle?

What I Just Wrote to ABC re: Cancelling Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution

food. comes. from. the ground.

"I am bereft, outraged, and appalled that TV as desperately needed as this is being pulled.  Oprah is a legacy because her goal was to use the TV medium for good, to educate, and to help people. It seemed like ABC was doing great work in this vein by airing this show. Now, instead of being an agent for critical and important change, you have simply deepened the disconnect between Americans and reality. I am ashamed of ABC. You need to apologize publicly and get that man back on the air." (they only give you 500 characters).

Tell them what you think:http://abc.go.com/site/contact-us

For those who don't know, Jamie Oliver is a cheeky Brit with a penchant for great food (ok, he's a spectacular chef) and a decent amount of outrage over how far "food" today is from its original, nourishing and healing forms.  He has traveled around advocating for real food and real transparency in the agencies that feed America's children (schools and fast food are huge areas of focus) without ever once attacking; rather he helps people see what's wrong - that a second grader can't tell a tomato from a potato and highschool kids- smart ones!- earnestly identify the "corndog plant" (which are really cattails) in a photo as the source of the hotdogs on their lunch menu.

Add to all of this that as obesity and diabetes rise in America, so does the mainstream consumer's dependence on prepackaged, processed, and mircowave-oriented food that does so little for the body and so much for the industrialized food industry.  American children are literally being trained to subsist on empty starches, sugared-up milk drinks, high fructose corn syrup, and "pink slime" (left-over bits from the industrial butchering process routinely mixed with bleach, pulverized, and added to Americans' "beef patties" as a filler).  Only the minutest portion of what we eat actually goes to support the brain's functions of cognition and memory, yet today's kids have more to cope with mentally than any previous generation- and virtually nothing to support them nutritionally.

Jamie contrasts this in his kitchen, to the amazement of parents and children alike, with locally raised, pasture fed and humanely treated meats, real vegetables (from the real ground), and teaches them what ought to be part of all children's learning- what food is, where it comes from, and how vitally important it is that we make this connection.

We are so mortifying-ly disconnected from our food sources as it is, and here comes this unassuming, funny, endearing man who knows his stuff and is all about helping fix the monumental problem in our society that is giving "the disease formerly known as adult-onset (aka diet related) diabetes" to children who haven't even hit puberty yet... and the network responsible for all of this abruptly closes the door on the whole thing.

Just when he had low-income kids in LA building their own garden and learning to cook for the student body after overcoming a shocking amount of resistance in the person of one member of the school board!  Mind you, parents were all for it.  In one episode they swarmed him with samples from their childrens' school breakfasts and lunches because he was not allowed in the cafeteria.  To a piece it was in the beige-ochre color scheme, mostly wrapped in microwave plastic sheaths, and at least 8 steps removed from any identifiable animal, fruit, or vegetable.  Not a speck of fresh produce in the mix.

The man who was fighting to change all this, and finally making headway, has been replaced in favor of RE-RUNs of (as another angry blogger put it) "Dancing with the f#*&@ng Stars".

Please do whatever you can to see what Food Revolution is still available to watch (try abc, hulu, and netflix if you must).  See what this man has done and if you share my outrage, please let them know.

Redemption Goes Both Ways

My childhood was imperfect.  Regular readers will know that one relationship in particular has stood out as by far the most damaging, disruptive, and difficult to reconcile.  Last summer many of you cheered me on as I unplugged the power this person had over me and reclaimed it for myself. 

I rode the vehicle of a writer’s challenge group to delve deep into the wounds that held me back, to challenge the inner demons that took most of their cues from this one troubled relationship and set of unfortunate circumstances.

At one point the transformation accelerated to the point that I wanted professional help to navigate emerging ptsd-style memories, so I hired a therapist whose vehement advice was to sever all ties with that person, forever, and never look back...

In the past twelve months another story has unfurled, which has ripened now to the point that it is only fair to give it voice.

After receiving the recommendation to sever ties, I recognized something inside was very unhappy with the idea.  Not a shred of good work could come from that tactic!  I was on a roll, I was feeling mighty, and I had two objectives: I was going to do myself the favor of saying, face-to-face, exactly what happened to “wee me” as a result of their actions, choices, and neglectfulnesses; and they were going to get the opportunity to rise to the challenge of hearing it full-on, and possibly make the jump to transformation.

It was a colossal risk, and the whole thing could have blown up in my face.  But here I had these inner demons nattering away at me, at the same time that I had this burgeoning force moving me forward-  Having reclaimed all the energy I’d been giving away through the damage itself, the time came to take the risk that was creating all the fear.

So. I did not sever ties.  I made a coffee date.

I arrived with a set of notes because this person is my single greatest ptsd trigger and the notes serve as an anchor to be sure I don’t miss anything I wanted to say, and I can also jot responses so they don’t get whirled away in the intensity of the moment.

I walked to the cafe- tall, strong, confident.  I chose the seat and sat calmly, waiting... within two minutes my stomach was turning flips, my hands were shaking, and my breath was all over the place.  I had to hit on my asthma inhaler.  A little baby panic attack.

And then my “date” arrived.  We exchanged what pleasantries we could, then got down to business.  Whomever said, “Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes”, totally had my back right then.  I was standing on a towering cliff while perched on a stool in a trendy little cafe.

I was about to take an irrevocable leap, and all the tumultuous scenes from the past were spooling to replay themselves indefinitely if I missed my footing.

But I started.  I started, and I kept going, and I was a river of anger and frustration and loss of innocence.  I explained everything that was wrong way back when, what it did to the tiny person I was, who had no tools to cope with it and who then responded by storing it all in hidden pockets of her being that occasionally rupture when current-time too closely resembles “back-when”.  I was bitter, I was caustic, I was on fire.

... and I was heard.

I had expected vehement denials, half-assed explanations, a violent eruption like the ones that resulted from past efforts to stand up for myself, and that were the hallmark of the original trauma.

But no.  On the other side of the table I saw a person holding themselves wide open, unflinching, to receive whatever I had to put forward.  No arguments, no denials, just a willing container for the outpouring of bile, venom, and tears I was churning out.

When I was emptied, I was told that I was right, that the past was indeed regrettable, and that I should not have been made to bear what I did.  Redemption as a verb goes two ways.  A person can redeem themselves, by taking responsibility for the things of which they are guilty (which, last summer I did not believe was possible for this person). 
A person can also redeem another, by confirming that the penance they’ve undertaken has been sufficient in accordance with the wrongs they’ve done.  We began this two-way process that day, perhaps to our mutual surprise.

At the very end, I was asked if there were any, any memories from childhood that were of brighter days.  At the time there were none I could access- they were still buried under the rest that I’d just begun to express.  This brought sadness to us both, but I said I’d keep an eye out as I continued clearing useless baggage.

The scene described above has been repeated a number of times since last summer, and by now I’ve said all I needed to.  Last time we got together it was just to have lunch.
This is not to say things are suddenly rosy and uncomplicated.  But so much of the mess has been cleared away that we can sit together in present time without first confronting the spectre of yesteryear.

Recently I began a course of bodywork that assists in releasing stored trauma.  During the first session I came up against a strong emotion from childhood which caught me off guard.  It was the simple, uncomplicated love of a young child, before anything awful happened to taint it.  It swept into/through/over me with a surge of such tenderness that I wept.

This must be my own small redemption.