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.


Pauline said...

My mother used to tell me that if I had a problem I could not solve by human means, I could always take it to God. She suggested finding a private place and speaking aloud. (That way I could also hear what i was saying. She was convinced hearing ourselves speak made things clearer than merely talking in our heads.)

I stopped believing in God at a very early age but I did continue to see the value in "hearing" myself. To this day I talk out loud or, as you did here, write things down so I can work my way through difficult issues. I hope telling your tale here has helped you find a way to resolve yours.

Roberta S said...

Thank you, Pauline. I don't know if what I had to say worked, or if it was your supportive comments on each post that worked, or if it was the grand chorus I heard at your blog. But something certainly worked -- maybe each and all of these things combined.

Alan G said...

It has of course been obvious how depressed and stressed you have been over this situation. I always try to find something humorous to throw in the mix in an effort to lift one’s spirits. But I have come up a little short with that approach on this occasion. Plus, I didn’t want to have someone tell me where I could stick my misplaced ‘humor’.

I sincerely believe that what you have done was exactly what you should have done – baring your thoughts and writing them down. As you might guess, I refer to that as “writing to myself”. I have been doing that for years in moments of crisis and find it quite therapeutic, at least for me. Talking to myself and/or thinking to myself were never solutions. There’s just something about writing it down for some of us that allows us to see through all that extra baggage we sometimes seem to carry.

I should acknowledge while we are on the subject of tattle-tails that I have never been friends with a tattle-tail. I have known a few in my life, mostly in elementary and junior high school but I never liked one of them at all. You are the first tattle-tail I have ever liked so at least find solace in the fact that unlike most tattle-tails, you’re a liked tattle-tail by Pauline and myself! :)

Joy Des Jardins said...

I've caught up on your last two posts. Your tattle-tale stories have been wonderful Roberta. Like're such a likeable one; and I've never been fond of tattle-tailers either.

I have to agree...your own personal therapy of putting it all to pen and paper (whether you know it or not) is the absolute best therapy for your own unique personality. I've found much comfort in doing the same thing...whether I post it or not.

I'll tell you one thing....your beautiful writing makes us all think. ~Joy

Alan G said...

In fact....

Till you came along I disliked tattletales so much that I never took the time to learn how to spell the dang word!!


There - I did it!!

Roberta S said...

Alan G. - no ill-placed humor here. I read your comments and laughed and slightly blushed with delight. First tattle-tale you ever liked? That could be make me a bit distrusting, but I'll dismiss that thought and accept the sincerity of what you said. Though the slight possibility remains that you only said what you said to appease me so I wouldn't tell on you! (chuckle)

Roberta S said...

Hi Joy. I'm truly glad you found some enjoyment in this distressing tale which when once started I kicked myself every day that I ever started it. Asking myself again and again "Why did I go there?" It all seemed such utter nonsense.

So I am truly grateful that you commented and in doing so made me happier than I might otherwise have been and more importantly, gave reason for me to think that in writing this I hadn't completely sacrificed my dignity.

Dick said...

No whining here, Roberta, just honest self-investigation. And as the comments make clear, there are many similarly burdened for whom your commentary has resonance, which has brought you a measure of comfort.

But you say 'of course I no longer have a therapist'. Why not? I'm too sardonic an old sceptic to be recommending professional help lightly to assist in straightening out the kinks that self-counselling through time has failed to do. But I have counselling for anxiety issues stemming from 'so long after the fact' once a week and though it's tough at times, it helps.

Roberta S said...

Hi Dick, your comment is much appreciated. However when something buries itself too deep as this problem has, I feel quite certain no one can sort it out except meself. Bit opinionated is what they say about me.

Another aspect that causes my reluctance is what a neighbor said to me the other day when I asked him why he didn't see a doctor about the agony in his back, particularly because the pain hasn't lessened one iota in the past three weeks.

"I'd love to," he replied, "but I don't have a doctor."

When I asked why, he told me that if you have a doctor, it has to be someone you trust, and that's why he doesn't have a doctor. Made perfect sense to me in these outbacks where we live.

But still, I will not cast this notion aside. Your advice is well taken. Wisdom in life is to always have in mind a disaster-recovery plan.

kokopelliwoman said...

Gotta second Joy on this. Self-reflection and writing about it is one of the best therapies there is. Yes, it's sometimes quite helpful to have an objective, compassionate professional to bolster that, but you've got the goods to work your way out of the woods.

Roberta S said...

Thank you, koko. Thank you for visiting and the vote of confidence in my own ability for internal arrangements.