In the ordinary events of life, I didn’t know my mind had the amazing ability to protect me. That understanding came to me during my healing journey from childhood sexual abuse. And it brought a conflict.
I moved through motherhood not knowing parts of my youth were carefully held in my unconscious, completely out of my reach to recall. When the memories of my past began showing up in my days, I didn’t know if they were my enemy… or my savior.
Each memory turned my very average life upside-down and inside-out. It might leak out over several weeks, kidnapping my routines one-by-one, until I could pull all the revelations together and comprehend an event from the past. Or the memory could rip me out of a sound sleep as an ordinary dream twisted into an experience from my childhood. Either way, my emerging trauma memory felt like a thief, stealing time out of my days and robbing my capacity to take charge of my life.
Even in quiet conversations, we often miss the spirit whispers. The words are acknowledged. We pick up on the body language. But the energy harmonizing with this information isn’t heard.
Though we feel it in our bones and will respond to the energy field that is part of every interaction, we can’t consciously use the insights they bring unless we tune in… and believe our perceptions.
Candles have helped me celebrate my birthday and granted me heartfelt wishes. Coming in green, red, and white, they bring their own kind of joy to Christmas. They have participated in warm gatherings of friends and brought quiet light to romantic moments. I have called on them to join me when I needed a symbolic ally. And, of course, candles are part of the great adventure when storms take away the electricity.
One of these storms made candles the king when I was without lights for three days. That was when my thoughts traveled back to Jane Austen’s England to get a glimpse of how light might have affected every day life.
Fudgesicles ruled. Glass bottles of Root Beer came out of refrigerated chests of water leaving cold drips as you drank the rare treat of a soda pop. As a child of the 50’s, I was acutely aware of living in very modern times!
While televisions slowly seeped into living rooms and the Russians launched the first space satellite, I was busy growing up. My friends and I spent our days practicing all the fun things that caught our attention.
Every moment of our childhood abuse asked us to manage the incomprehensible. Without personal power, we had to withstand what shamed, frightened, hurt, confused, and sometimes threatened our lives. One tool most survivors used was shutting down their feelings.
I was driving a large semi truck… a challenge I had accepted. Feeling I could do it if I drove slowly, paid attention, and didn’t have to back up, I met my fears head on until I got to the intersection. In that moment, a car pulled up along side me just as another long truck on my right began making a left-hand turn, and he wasn’t going to make it unless I backed up!
In my dream, I was being asked to do what I imagined I couldn’t, and I chose to put the strange beast in reverse. Slowly putting my foot on the gas, I accepted the challenge. I could feel the back of the truck swinging away from the cab when I woke up.
For me, the magic of a tree lies beyond the color and shape of its leaves or the silhouette it creates against the skyline. I love knowing it has been a witness to time. I’m convinced each tree is a diary of the lives it has sheltered from the sun.
The oak trees scattered across Jane Austen’s England, hold the intimate secrets of days when there were no street lights. Sitting beside a country road that may still be there, this gnarled friend of the past stood quietly as carriages took ladies of the local gentry and aristocracy to visit their neighbors for tea. Many evenings would pass without a single traveler at a time when events were planned around the light of the moon.
It was the 50’s and I made my way from one end of the first floor hallway to the other end, then up the stairs where the older kids ruled at school. While I traveled from 4th grade to 6th grade, a few students left and new ones came to our small town school; one of the new kids became my first boyfriend. That lasted a few weeks until I got a cold and decided I was so disgusting, I couldn’t be his girlfriend anymore.
In the 60’s, I moved across the street with my classmates to junior high/high school. Some of us traveled the entire twelve years together, but each and every person in my class feels special to me. They have become a part of who I am today. Simply by being themselves in their own journey of growth, they created my opportunities to learn lessons that still touch my heart.
My first memory of childhood sexual abuse blew my world into a million fragments. I was 42 and felt like everything I knew about my life was now scattered at my feet like pieces of a puzzle that needed to be put back together again.
As I clung to Courage to Heal like a life raft, worked with a therapist, and staggered forward on my healing journey, I realized the puzzle I was putting back together didn’t look like the picture of my past I had shared with others. I was recognizing you find the secrets deep inside when you have dissociated trauma memories.
While it’s crazy-making to have flashes of your unknown past pop up without warning, it’s just as frustrating to be ready and determined to reclaim your truth and not be able to remember by following the usual path of memories. In one of those moments, when I was feeling washed away by a river of emotion, I grabbed my pen and started drawing lines until I understood; my sexual abuse memories would not come until I was ready.
Sometimes you think you’re going to spend the afternoon at the theatre and end up at home waiting for the plumber. Or you run to the store and find out your dog's essential and favorite rawhide braids are out of stock.
It’s like walking on a gently sloping downhill trail into lush valleys and finding your path blocked with a sign pointing you to a steep, uphill trek covered by exposed roots and loose stones. The first was so very inviting. The other holds no charm. The path you were traveling was part of your plans and the alternate route holds no enticing promise.
I moved through motherhood not knowing parts of my youth were carefully held in my unconscious, completely out of my reach to recall. When the memories of my past began showing up in my days, I didn’t know if they were my enemy… or my savior.
Though we feel it in our bones and will respond to the energy field that is part of every interaction, we can’t consciously use the insights they bring unless we tune in… and believe our perceptions.
One of these storms made candles the king when I was without lights for three days. That was when my thoughts traveled back to Jane Austen’s England to get a glimpse of how light might have affected every day life.
While televisions slowly seeped into living rooms and the Russians launched the first space satellite, I was busy growing up. My friends and I spent our days practicing all the fun things that caught our attention.
In my dream, I was being asked to do what I imagined I couldn’t, and I chose to put the strange beast in reverse. Slowly putting my foot on the gas, I accepted the challenge. I could feel the back of the truck swinging away from the cab when I woke up.
The oak trees scattered across Jane Austen’s England, hold the intimate secrets of days when there were no street lights. Sitting beside a country road that may still be there, this gnarled friend of the past stood quietly as carriages took ladies of the local gentry and aristocracy to visit their neighbors for tea. Many evenings would pass without a single traveler at a time when events were planned around the light of the moon.
In the 60’s, I moved across the street with my classmates to junior high/high school. Some of us traveled the entire twelve years together, but each and every person in my class feels special to me. They have become a part of who I am today. Simply by being themselves in their own journey of growth, they created my opportunities to learn lessons that still touch my heart.
As I clung to Courage to Heal like a life raft, worked with a therapist, and staggered forward on my healing journey, I realized the puzzle I was putting back together didn’t look like the picture of my past I had shared with others. I was recognizing you find the secrets deep inside when you have dissociated trauma memories.
It’s like walking on a gently sloping downhill trail into lush valleys and finding your path blocked with a sign pointing you to a steep, uphill trek covered by exposed roots and loose stones. The first was so very inviting. The other holds no charm. The path you were traveling was part of your plans and the alternate route holds no enticing promise.
