Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Home Free! - Part IV (conclusion)
The Worth of This Spiritual Exercise
This story has been one about trying to find resolve for extreme sadness. Sadness wedged solidly in my soul.
And so, with no place else to turn, I have been reviewing my past to see how such problems had been solved in my earlier years. And as I told you, being a tattle tale worked for a time. But eventually one becomes a teen, a mature woman, a mother, a fully fledged adult and then what does one do?
Not much of a solution to be found in my teen years. It was over-dramatization that helped me through that segment of life. Flung on the bed in a puddle of tears is where solace was found when I was a teen. But, as an adult that all seemed such foolishness.
So as a young mother and a mature individual I could no longer tattle tales, or swim in tearful wails, so that is when I slammed doors and went to my therapist.
My therapist had pale blue eyes tinted with a wash of extreme kindness. My therapist was rather plump, with gray hair pulled back tightly in a tidy bun. She always wore cotton flowered dresses that had the appeal of gaiety. And an apron that gave her the appeal of complete devotion to her designated tasks.
And so I went in to my ‘therapist’s office’ and flopped on her couch. And immediately the healing began. Did we talk? No we didn’t? Did I tell her what was breaking my heart? No I didn’t.
I simply flopped on my therapist’s couch and the healing began while she went on doing whatever it was she was doing—as if I wasn’t even there.
She went right on whistling, and bustling, and sewing, cooking, or washing dishes. And my healing raced along. Swiftness encouraged by water running, dishes clanking, a sewing machine humming, knitting needles clicking, the smell of cooking, or by nothing more that the soft rustle of her apron against her skirt or her shoes against the floor.
The mend was not the result of any discussion or great wordy interchange. It was in the aura of home, being home, the safety of home. A grand feeling of security that erases sorrow like a fine bottle of White-Out.
Reminding me with such intensity, how I used to feel when playing ball and racing, amidst such risk and danger, full-tilt for home-plate. And then, the grand moment of majestic glory, when my foot safely touched the home-plate. Dancing, prancing.
“I’m Home Free! I’m Home Free!” (nothing can harm me now).
Like home-plate, home was just a place free from harm, fear, care, or any kind of inharmonious interface. That’s all. Nothing more.
So obviously, in my present distress, that is where I must go. But it’s a bit too late for that.
I look for a place to run, the plate to touch so I can yell, “Home Free”, but I can’t find it. Like some old ball diamond, fallen into disuse, the home-free-plate is covered with leaves and turf and can no longer be found.
Yeh, it’s really a bit of a shake-up when there is no place of true comfort where one can run to and skid in there yelling, “I’m Home Free!”
Of course I no longer have a therapist, and it’s bloody ridiculous that I should be whining about this so long after the fact. But this whole rant has been a rigorous spiritual exercise that has been comforting.
Proof of the worth of self-reflection. It has softened the rawness. Eased the pain. And although I’m not “Home Free” …— going back to the analogy of softball, I’m not in a hot box between second and third either.