Transforming Symbols

I was once asked

“What symbols were you born into life with?”

And immediately,

I thought of her

Head spinning, pea green hurling from mouth

Her

That’s the symbol I was born into life with

Literally, mother thought it was cute

Not realizing it was her life symbol, too

She named me with this

Woman, small, weak, victim

Possessed by unknown forces she’d never control

Her story, now was

My story

Always looking for a savior

But

Not even Big Daddy

Could do the job

Forever doomed

That was the symbol

Better just accept it

Take your meds

Hope for normality

And tell no one

Well

My soul wasn’t having it

And soon, I was a girl possessed by

An eating disorder, not some ancient demon

(Well at least we’re progressing here)

But it was basically the same story

Try as hard as you can

But no one, not even yourself

Will be able to save you

Accept it

Take your medicine

Follow your meal plan

Don’t trust the lies your body tells you

Hope for normality

And tell no one

Again, the soul rebelled and wrote a memoir

Told everyone

Went off meds

Left the nine to five

And tried its hardest

To trust the sacredness of this body

All the while battling whispering voices

You’re crazy

You’re possessed

Your body is trying to kill you

No one or thing will ever rescue…

Still, the soul persisted

The soul

Wanted another symbol

I was hard at work on this,

When one day

A great pain terrorized my core

Memories of my mother, once more

Travelling from doctor to doctor

Trying to find the cause

Trying to find the cure

But ultimately

Finding nothing

Crazy

“We’re sorry lady

We’ve got nothing to offer you

We’ve done all the tests

And there’s nothing there

So just take these medications

And learn how to manage”

Her story

Her symbol

Woman, weak, victim, possessed

Powerless

And doomed

Well, this pain, it found me too

As will the ancestral symbols

And at first, I was her

Looking for cures, looking for causes

And finding none

Empty looks in doctor’s eyes

“Sorry”

Her story

Had become my story

Once more

But again,

The soul wouldn’t settle

And it put all of its shamanic, witchy tools to the test

Trusting, visioning, chanting

Trying to transform

Trying to transform the symbols

Symbols born into this life with

Symbols it just couldn’t accept

The question came one day

“What would you like your life to symbolize?”

And I looked back

At a life of so many other people’s symbols

And I decided

To call in my own

From possessed to compassionate de-possessor

From anorexic to vibrant, wise and magical kitchen witch

From crazy, chronic illness throwaway patient to

Somatic healing, dreamworker and sexual abuse recovery mentor

This is what I’d like my life to symbolize

Symbolizing

The transformative journey

The decades long struggle

The persistent, never-give-up-on-myself

Stubborn goat-like fighter

The one who refused to accept the label

Of what so many of her lineage died still tortured by

A transformer of symbols

Steadfast by my own sacred soul’s side

Believing that there is more

Believing that my body is wise

Visioning another way

Communing with the Old Medicines

This journey to transform

Finding a path to heal, for all my relations

This is what I’d like my life to symbolize

To be the ancestor that finally finds resolution

Or at least the one

That will die trying

Thanks for reading!

What symbols were you born with/into?

What would you like your life to symbolize?

Featured

The Center of Pain

some days i wake up

and it’s dark

inside

so gloomy the prospect

of another day…

with you

while the birds go on chirping

and the chimes go on chiming

here, deep in here

it’s dark

knowing better

I struggle

to keep my breath above the din

swirling and sucking

drawing me in

your throbbing

it greets me

like a lover i’m still confused by

forcing

attention

to the realms below

is it you that provides portal

into new roads of somatic deepening

or you, my captor

drawing off lines

where i can no longer roam

darkness, this darkness

amidst a world of grateful comforts

grabs me and takes hold

brings me to weeping, fearing

of the dance i can no longer have

of the long dreamy imaginal forays

of sessions, pen to page, losing myself in words

of the warm cozy feel of book and couch

of cafe frothers and clanging dishware

of open roads with days before me

of the dance

losing myself

in the dance

will i no longer be able

to lose myself

in the dance?

please…

no…

the edge of grief turns to paranoia

doom-casting into years beyond

wheelchair bound and listless

drugged out on pain killers

alone

by catheter

rageful and bitter

caged by

you

now, luckily

years of toolbox building

has me skilled with a fish hook

and i pull myself present

into this moment, here

into this moment, now

where, when i sink deep into you

deeper than the darkness

deeper than the grieving

deeper than the fear and panic of beyond

choosing, instead, to spiral into you

choosing, instead, to explore you

choosing instead, to accept you, feel you

become you

into this place, as you

everything seems okay

in this breath, in this moment

in the way the sun streams as if holding

it’s empty

and i begin to wonder

if you

are the door

everything’s crazy

and

your throbbing

it greets me

like a lover i’m still confused by

forcing my attention

to the realms below

is it you that provides portal

into new roads of somatic deepening

or my captor,

drawing off lines

where i can no longer roam

Imaginary

What the hell am I doing here

With these see-thru hands

She asked herself this question

Over and over again

Imagining some day

She’d actually feel real enough

To know the answer

Class after class after class

Accolade after accolade

And rarely, another’s skin to confirm

Always

She came back to this feeling

This question

This ephemeral evanescent vapor

Her mind and body seemed to be

What am I doing here

With these see-thru hands

She asked herself this question

Over and over and over again

Imagining some day

She’d actually feel real enough

To know the answer

Returning

Returning, returning

Always keep returning

To the scene of the crime

Struggling

Scraping

Thrashing

Pressing

Wailing

Against these walls

For a moment or two

The box becomes bigger

And ahhhh, sigh…..

But returning

Returning

At some point always

Returning

To the scene of the crime

Commonly, to push through

Ensures probable long-term

Shifting

Perseverance, toughness

Not letting walls win

Unsuccessful, upon pressure

Over and over

Returning

Always returning

Unsuccessful,

Lurching in abysmal hopelessness

Returning, another round

Broken, open

Tools, spent

The question starts forming

Why

Does this body

Want to go back?

Spirals, spiraling

Years of pursuit and defeat

And now

The question

Is there wisdom in the

Returning

Is there wisdom in the

Struggle

Is there wisdom, hidden

In the symptom of return?

Turning towards

Instead of pushing forward

The question, holding

The question, exploring

The question, honoring

The question

Asking

Why do you keep returning?

Why do I keep returning?

Is there a who, urging returning?

Same numbers

Same boxes

Same terror

Hovering ’round

The scene

Of the crime

Returning, returning

Spiral, spiraling

Wisdom, not pushing

Wisdom, turning into

Wisdom, asking

Wisdom?

Asking

Returning

Knocking

Limping, exhausted, overwhelmed

I arrive at your door

Again.

I’ve stayed away from this portal

As for so many years

Over and over

When it opens,

It hurts.

This door of “healing”

Systemic scientifically proven

Cold lenses full of

Twisting realities

Shaming

Preconceived notions

Tales of resistance and

Non-compliance

Before

I say

A word.

I’ve been trying to find my way out here

Alone

Amongst the wind

Amongst the death

Amongst the hopelessess, terror and fear

Amongst this collective self-destruction

I’ve been trying

Trying to see myself anew

Trying to see this world anew

Trying to hold hope, shining

That really, there’s something sacred going on

That really, with faith, we can make magic

That really, these wounds are teachers

Showing us the way home

If we could listen.

I’ve been grateful

I’ve been in surrender

I’ve adapted

To the incredibly tiny trauma world

That keeps me, and perhaps you, safe.

But now the nightmares

Now the pain

Now the plummeting evidence of lifeforce

Declining earth within me

Stares back, gaping.

Now, body revolting

Now, soul refusing

This cage, ancestrally repeating.

I know what will help me

The vastness, potential of deep soma, holding

Facing terror with arms around me

But lacking privilege

I turn to the only source I can afford

Hoping

This time it will be different.

I pray to the invisible potentials

To show me something different

To open me to something new

To help me stretch beyond my assumptions

Of what I will be met with.

I show up at your door

Limping, exhausted, overwhelmed

Frustrated at my own failed heartful attempts

Frustrated that the spiral keeps spinning

That my mind keeps collapsing

Frustrated that I’m here, again.

Knocking,

The door opens

You stand there

And instead of holding

Instead of asking

Instead of listening

Once again

You hold out your list

And begin to remind me

Of the mistake you see me as

Of all of my failures

Of what I should have done

Could have done

Were I really “ready.”

My mouth opens

My voice tries to speak

My fires try to rise, defending

This wounded one, returning

But blankness prevails

Although simmering beneath

Silence prevails

All I can hear is the next item

On your system-generated list

My hand retreats

From its hopeful opening

Back into my chest

Curled inward.

At least this time

My frozenness thaws

So I can see

So I can see your heart, broken

Your wildness, shackled

Your soul, grieving

So I can see,

And finally walk away.

Turning,

Away from knocking,

I step out of the stream of your misery

And back into my own Love

Ever-searching

Again.

Shutdown

It doesn’t take much these days

Oh were we back in the olden times

Where choices and new adventures

Brought excitement

Giddiness

Joy

Where choices and new adventures

Didn’t just collapse her

Today, she stands at the refrigerator

Yearning for a way out

But choosing

The Same

Its an over and over again thing

The thing that keeps her safe

Safe

But

Nearly

Dead

Ironic, that

What once was crafted for safety

Now imprisons her

High above, crumbling

Standing at the edge, frozen

Standing at the refrigerator, frozen

Standing in the face of

His pulsing and

Unexplainably overwhelming

Energy, frozen

Standing before the page of purposeful, frozen

Standing before the questions, frozen

Standing before the gaping maw

The Invitation of her life,

Her one precious life, frozen

Again

She chooses the same

Where less always makes it better

Just to thaw a little

Does she

Really

Have

Control?

He asks her

Unconscious, profession

What’s wrong with you

And she replies

Everything

But Nothing to be put into words

For your system to compute

And come to tidy conclusions

That exist manually, chemical

Everything is wrong

Despite emergency lacking

And what she needs is support

To find the voice within the terror

Within the Shutdown

Digging way deep

And perhaps far back

Cradled

Beyond what meds can do

To finally find Her

And where she’s been

Frozen

For so long

The collapse of mind

The mush of executive function

The wordless, stammering

The blankness, the blankness

Everything is wrong

But Nothing to be put into words

But Nothing that fits into old paradigms

But Nothing to be medicated

Frozen

Again

A Shutdown

Its the only clue, left without crumbs

How then

Will She

Ever

Be found?

Healing

Past the superficial engines

I went deeper

Into the central rooms of myself

There

I found ancient ritual

Thick tapestry lining walls

Humming, haze

Of handrolled sticks alight

And a baby in my arms

Nervous, unsure how to support

The young flesh absorbed into mine

As usual, skilled in simultaneous flight

Without memory

Of the secrets of their chantings

I wonder just what happened in that core

And what the digested matter

Is growing in me now

The crows in the distance

The snow beneath feet

Now I’m running

But

Old prisons abandoned

Now I’m rising

Requiring reality

A sippable sensuality

Beyond the programming’s pleasure

There I find her

Grown and reaching

She’s waving media

And dark vibrations

And asking for my guidance

Do I have the tools to raise her?

Nervous, unsure how to support

I take her hand

And we begin to walk

Absorbing

Into the question

Together

Receiving

Photo by Brenda Timmermans on Pexels.com

According to census

On November 8, 2021

At 1:21PM Pacific Standard time

There were 7,801,470,370 people on Planet Earth

That’s a lot of people

And I wonder

Out of all of them

Who wants “more” in their life?

Who feels lucky to receive

More money

More food

More choices

More intimacy

More sex

More blah blah blah

And I wonder

Why it is

That I live in such a land of plenty

And yet watch as

This body cringes

At most advances to receive

“More”

Running

Away

Wanting to quiet

Wanting to clear

Wanting to settle

Wanting to simplify

Wanting the whirlwind

The whirlwind

To stop

Receiving, overwhelm

Receiving, anxiety

Receiving, nausea

Receiving, vomit

Receiving, illness

It always comes

Eventually

I’ve tried

Many times to battle

To strengthen

To transform

To understand

To push through

To gain

Freedom

But eventually

Sickness

This resistance

Finds a way to whittle

I wonder how many bodies

Hold these stories

That dam up the center

To process receiving

Digesting

These old, old traumas

Unspoken

That resist any and all

Sense of “more”

Stories so embedded

As if thorn wriggled

Into flesh that’s given up

Fighting

Embedded

And part of

And extremely difficult

To extract

To speak of

Even

This is speaking the unspeakable

What this is,

Not vanity

Not desire for thinness

But fear

Of gargantuan

Roiling responses

Of this body

That holds eons

Eons of suffering

Eons of manipulation

Eons of separation

Eons of ostracization

Eons of repeated experiences

Ending in tragedy

I can’t even know

How many threads

I am attached to

Breaking

Breaking this

Breaking this open

Scalpel in hand

Ready to carve

Ready to be the whittler

A hovering salivation

Yet questioning

How this will be done

Location long forgotten

The location of fear

The location of trauma

The location of terror

The location of hiding

The location

Where it all began

Hovering

This scalpel

She wants to dig in

For all her relations

But without location

She risks death

Circling her body

Plotting entrypoints

A carving

Away at all the locations

Where the unspeakable

May be housed within

She is grateful

She is healthy

She no longer qualifies

She is no longer emergency

But like the Steppenwolf

This pacing

Salivating

Hunger

Haunts her

As of November 8, 2021

At 1:34pm Pacific Standard Time

According to census information

There were 7, 801, 472, 470 people

On planet Earth

How many of them are asking

This question

Scalpel in hand

Hovering

Pacing

Is there something wrong with receiving?

Is there something wrong with how I’m receiving?

Is there something wrong with how we’re receiving?

How many?

Letting Go: Of Staying Silent

I chose this topic as a result of the WordPress Daily Prompt exercise https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/recite/ , which led me to the word Recite. And now I am here, questioning. I want to choose a new word, one with more seeming drama. Solitary? Visceral? Unfurl? Recite whirls in my head, emptiness at the thought of it. What do I have to say about this word?

Here comes a memory of me, on stage, at about the age of 11. I was dressed as the Town Crier (how ironic that is, lol) and “reading” off of a scroll to the townspeople. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” I proclaimed, and then suddenly…everything was blank. For whatever reason, be it nerves from being in front of the whole school on stage, or something else, I just totally and completely went blank. I had rehearsed this, and even performed this role many times with no issue. But that day, I went silent.

The only thing I remember after that moment was my co-actors scrambling to make it all seem like it was part of the play. I also happen to remember something about a “popular girl” that seemed to have it out for me at school being in the crowd, her eyes peering at me. Nothing else remains in my memory, only the sense that I somehow left my body during that moment and didn’t return for a while.

Up until that point, I had great joy in acting–reciting lines with friends, participating in monologue or acting contests–it was all such play for me. I loved dressing up, I loved it all. Yet from what I can remember, after that performance I stopped acting completely.

At the same time at home, I was in the constant aforementioned confusing chaos of my mother’s unpredictable expression of her rage and grief. I was becoming a teen, and I was fighting to become an individual, pushing away her intrusive pummeling vibrations. Around that time, as I mention in my soon to be published memoir Food Memories, I had another powerful experience with my voice. One night as mom was going on a rampage in the living room, and I felt myself get so frustrated, so angry that I burst out of my room and walked right up to her, mid-rant. I grabbed her and yelled at her to shut the hell up, shaking her violently in my strengthening teenage grasp. I remember the look in her eyes, of terror, and of the guilt I felt for seemingly having caused this reaction in her. I remember she was frozen, and silent, and then me crying saying I was sorry, sorry, sorry. I remember her walking away in a daze and me running to my room to hide from what I had just done. I had never done this before, I was the “good child” and had no idea what had taken over me to behave this way. Again, after this situation, it was very silent in the house. We both stopped expressing completely.

How that all ties into the eventual descent into depression, Anorexia, and the psych hospitals seems pretty obvious–without a place to express myself, and being immersed in my mother’s cauldron of repressed emotional intensity, something had to break. That something was me. My innate talent and joy for reciting, playing, singing, expressing my voice and thoughts and emotions broke down like our old rusty Pinto often did, sputtering and collapsing in the middle of the intersection of my life.

Its taken me a long time to re-find my voice, to speak it, and with that the practice of being with the feelings of terror it caused was necessary. Shaking, trembling, heart racing and a cold sweat quivering at my brow, each time I challenged myself to recite, I had to weather these reactions I was feeling inside. Each time, my body was transported back to staring into my mother’s petrified glance, her cold skin in my hands. Each time, I was back on that stage, pierced by the eyes of hundreds of judging eyes and laughter.

I laugh at myself sometimes, reflecting on how something that seems so insignificant in light of others’ horrifying traumas could have shaken me so much. But I can’t deny my body’s consistent reaction to speaking my voice, regardless of how silly I sometimes think it all is. The feelings are still really there and seemingly in my way. Yet by now, I have enough awareness to know that these are old feelings, not ones relevant to the current experience of recital. I know that I have to ride them, holding myself through it all, even through my own self-judgmental laughter.

Recite. I guess the prompt did have something to say through me after all :}