Tag Archives: divine intervention

love story in there….somewhere….

girl and dragon

There seems to be light at the end of the tunnel.

I seem to have made it through the latest chapter of dark times.

Hopefully.

When I started this blog, I felt lost.  Then I found myself through writing and gave myself a voice that I’d never possessed before, at least for myself.  I’d been championing for others for decades; animal rights, women’s rights, diversity, environment.  It had become painful apparent to me that a great deal of time had been spent advocating for others and not myself.  That was a game changer.

Writing this blog has enabled me to find my voice through writing but look several issues squarely in the eye.  Honoring myself was one.  A simple bumper sticker noticed by the artist, Terri St. Cloud of Bone Sigh Arts.  Honor Yourself.  Simple words that were nearly impossible to integrate.

The next issue was that I couldn’t wrap my thinking around the fact that someone, anyone would want to read what I had to say.  In my mind, my words had to be profound, a literary masterpiece before putting them out for the world to see.  Shouldn’t I get a MFA in writing or something or some sort of artistic approval before being so bold as to put my words, my life, my history into words?  Well, that answer came soon too.  Survivors trickled in, slowly at first, some stumbling and fragmented, some already having honed their beautiful craft of expression.  All were worthy and I felt so blessed to be a part of a counterculture emerging for survivors, men and women, who were taking back their power.  I wanted to be a part of that.  For me, it was coming home.

My most recent absence is due to my utter confusion and re-entry into that dark place.  You see, I thought I’d been through it and had emerged complete, or at least complete enough.  I thought I was finally, finally in that safe cocoon where I could share my story of abuse and survival with the clarity of hindsight.  I was wrong, at least sort of.

This summer I separated from my husband.  My fairy tale crashed and I felt that I was a fraud.  How on earth could I write stories of hope and love when I had failed at my own love story?  Slowly, I moved through the hazy days of summer with my tool bag (purple of course) of rest, solitude, meditation, reading and dark chocolate.  I cried when I felt like it, wandered through the library, raged at Grandmother moon in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eluded me, slept any time I felt fatigued and tried, oh how I tried, to find joy anywhere I could.  I picked flowers and herbs from my beautiful garden and gave them to anyone I could think of; my church for Sunday morning service, the women at the convenient mart on the corner who are always so kind and make me laugh every time I’m there buying chocolate, my dear friend’s mother who was passing this summer, a friend who works long hours and commutes into the city each day.  I gave them just because.  Just because in the absence of my own joy, I needed to create that precious spark of joy for someone else and live vicariously off of that until I had my own.

Many, many people supported me though this passage, you will find them on my blogroll and Facebook page.  I simply couldn’t have weathered this without logging on to see their daily posts on love, writing, poetry, painting, nature, food.  I traveled with several as they made major changes in their lives too and hope that I provided them a wee bit of support also.

Slowly that spark began to burn again.  Now I have more words and more insight into myself.  I tip my hat to the dark side, purpose well served.

I still live a love story.  Really, there is a love story in here somewhere.  One that, once again, must begin with myself.  With or without a partner, my daughter, my dogs, my house.  I can write words of hope because now I’ve lived them again.  I’m not a fraud but an innocent person who stumbles and trips often, sometimes sitting in the mud puddle I fell in, squalling and crying.  But then there are times, when I laugh and dance around with a soggy tutu.

It’s all good.

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What a novel idea….Novel Writing Winter!

263601384409890714_o2Xloiyz_bThis incredible concept is one I stumbled upon accidently but fortuitously.

A blog post from Sarah Potter came through yesterday describing her concept of Novel Writing Winter.

I happened to be one of those writers who signed up NaNoWriMo after completing it last year and crossing the finish line with a completed 50,000 words.  It was awesome as was the afterglow of my accomplishments but for several reasons it just didn’t work out this year.  I got 6000 words in and that was it.  Sure, now its my responsibility to slay those inner critics as I read I should do but there’s a whisper in my ear about why I didn’t go further with the one month writing deadline.

Enter Sarah Potter with serendipitious timing.

I learn a lot from other writer’s reflections on their writing path and why it sometimes might take a different twists and turns.  Sarah offered an opportunity to commit to a gentler climb rather than dashing up the steep slope of NaNoWriMo.  Now this was an approach that I can wrap my head around.

I’d actually been envisioning a scenario similar to this after realizing that November had come and gone.  I hadn’t met my personal writing goals yet the long winter still loomed ahead.  Why not make the best of both situations?  So that’s what I shall do.  It would be even better  to have any of my writing pals who are contemplating a novel to join in as we tackle the dark season of winter together.

Then there is this other reason.

Once I heard this idea of NWW, I realized I could also use this as an absolute excuse for snuggling up with my beloved and aging friend Rose.  As she approaches her 14th year, I’m not sure how many more winters we’ll have together.  She is my best muse and constant companion.  There are no words to describe the depth of love I have for this dog.  She’s seen me through more tough times than I can describe and is as fine tuned to me as another being can get.  I’d love to mark this passage in our lives with a winter of quiet space where can just be.

We’ll do this together and it’ll be great.

In fact, I will do my best to make it extraordinary.

Look out….Rose and I are writing a book!


would i still be a part of your world…

There is a huge conflict going on inside of me, one that I’ve been denying on many levels for months now.

The anxiety is so huge that there isn’t enough medication, alcohol, or busyness to tame it.  There is a world that beckons me, one that I can’t/won’t/don’t know how to become one with.  Its there in my dreams, its there in my waking thoughts and with me throughout my day, no matter who I’m talking to or what activity I’m attempting  to do.  I smell things when no one else does.  I see shadows out of my periphery constantly.  Any random person’s energy can send me all over the place, reducing me to tears in minutes or set my heart singing with joy.  There are times when I am certain that I am going crazy or are at least partly there already.

Phrases keep cycling through my mind and shadowing my daily activities.  Undoubtedly put there by my higher power, a scrolling ticker-tape message…                           “you are afraid of your spiritual gifts“….“let go and receive”  

Does one really hear sentences from the divine?  Do messages come through like that really?  Complete sentences plopped into your thinking?  Does the divine feel a relentless yet benevolent desire to alert a person to their gifts or journey in a way that they won’t let up for anything?  And more importantly, does a physical body become ill when you don’t live according to your true destiny and path?

The messages coming through the natural world are increasing too.  More hawks swooping over me. Deer peeking out of the bushes when I’m in silent meditation.  Hummingbirds hovering in front of me and looking me in the eye.  Coyotes howling… all grab my attention immediately but what are they saying?  What is with this barrage of information?  I get that its the cosmic “Hey, look at me” but to what?  What am I supposed to get that I’m NOT getting?

I’ve accepted the label of “emotionally sensitive” given to me by therapists, immediate family, friends and those in the healing and mystical arts.  I can live with that.  But even that label is seriously understated.

I now know and acknowledge that I feel things 1000 percent harder than most, maybe more.  It can be a wonderful yet paralyzing gift if there is no one to show or explain to you about the enormity of the feeling you are having.  My world rocks like I’m on a ship being cast about at sea.  I seek answers from those around me and my closest friends get weird questions from me all the time.  Did you feel that person’s sadness/fear/joy?  Do you smell a campfire/skunk/Old Spice/beauty salon smell/cigars, etc?  Or, we need to leave this place, the energy is choking/suffocating/heavy with sadness.  My poor husband and daughter are used to it but frankly, we’ve all thought I’m about to teeter over the edge at times.

But the thought that brings one of my biggest sense of fear and can immediately send me into an anxiety attack of epic proportion is…Will I be totally ostracized when I allow myself to succumb to this beautiful, alternative, spiritual world?

Our media driven-pop culture-capitalist worshipping world we live in is dictated by norms….outward appearance, job, which church one attends(not if), the house one lives in.  I don’t find our world to be a place where our gentleness is admired, where one looks at your heart first, a greeting to inquire of whether you have a spiritual practice or how do you find your peace.

Apparently, I am looking for that place as much as it is looking for me.  But I know I’m still blocking it somehow, wondering and feeling deep anguish over this one central thought.

Would I still be a part of your world if I allowed myself to be fully who I am?   Authentically, beautifully and blissfully weird?

Recommended Links:  Let your freak flag fly….http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ruthless-Compassion-Institute/121541431101


that little dog Norm….

Even though Norm lost one leg, he is adapting well to having  3…

Suffering in any form is a huge trigger for me.  Animal suffering is a trigger so big that I almost instantly spill over the edge, very little warning, just simply gone.

I take huge precautions that the average person probably doesn’t in terms of limiting my exposure to any information. Current events, politics, visual images or stories retold by friends at a gathering are heavily censored items.  I do not watch the news. Ever.  The chosen stories are tragic and sensationalized for the purpose of gaining followers (translating into more money) and rarely report anything truly noteworthy or with purpose.  After all, how many house fires, bodies in the river, assaults can one really stomach without just losing their noodle?  These images most likely will pass right through the average Joe but its totally different for a trauma survivor with PTSD and huge anxiety issues.  Mostly, its like someone took a branding iron and seared the image into my brain.  It stays there and hurts for a very long time.

Thank goodness one can limit/pick/choose what they read on Facebook. And I really struggle with the agenda of  the animal and rescue organizations which often cite cases of abuse, not exclusively for gaining readership but in an effort to inform and rally support for a cause.  Somewhat different in my book.  Such is the case of Norm, a dog found near death, barely breathing, in a weeded area in St. Louis city during a record heat wave of temperatures over 100 degrees.  This dog was found so mangled that the rescuer angel and saint, Randy Grim of  Stray Rescue of St. Louis, recognized immediately that this dog was not only a victim of a dog fighting ring that operated in the area but it had been used as a bait dog. What? Did I hear that right? My brain winces and sizzles… At the mere mention of the word “bait”, I was gone….eyes glazed, mind numbing gone.

What kind of soul-less creature would purposely and maliciously use another for the purpose of entertainment of such a vicious nature?  What kind of person is so removed from their essence to set out to harm an animal in such a way?  Then it hit me.  I knew those people.  I knew those men.  It wasn’t a reach to remember that I not only knew them but experienced their cruel and selfish acts.  Acts perpetuated for the sole purpose of their depraved pathology and base pleasures.

This story is just ripe with metaphors for me.

One of the characteristics of a psychopath is having a lack of empathy for another, showing no remorse or guilt.  The people who participate in baiting dogs against each other and leaving them for dead, are psychopaths.  And here I am again, totally having to find a way to hold onto myself as the world starts spinning around, just because I read a story about a dog rescue.

The word “rescue” has huge meaning for me.  The obvious points to my blog title but the concept of a rescuer has always been incredibly alluring to me.  When one is a child who is being molested/abused/violated/shamed, it is the only thing you can imagine.  That child’s ultimate hope isn’t for great toys for Christmas, ice cream for dinner or a vacation to Disneyworld.  That child wants to be heard and rescued. Plain and simple, they want relief.  And I’m speaking for myself and probably other surivors when I say that the concept of having a figurehead in your life so strong and emotionally together, that they come to rescue you from a horrid situation, is so far fetched that it borders on fantasy.  From my experiences, its far more likely that a superhero will swoop down and intervene than for an actual rescuer to manifest in an abused child’s life.  Cynical yes, but sadly, fairly close to the truth.

So the actual manifestation of a person who rescues is so enamoring to me, that although Norm’s story is gruesome, I can’t get enough of the giddy feeling of liberation that I feel when this dog is carried to safety and ultimately to a well equipped facility who will give it round the clock emergency care.  I’m absolutely mesmerized and am carried back in time to many childhood moments of near breakdown, pleading with the divine for help, for a rescuer.

Norm hovered for days near death.  Hundreds of people prayed for him and left messages on Facebook wanting continual updates.  I couldn’t get him off my mind.  During this time, with the image of Norm branded on my brain I ultimately emerged with the final thought of this post.  Could a soul, animal or human, stripped of dignity and depersonalized so savagely, come out of the experience anything less than a monster?  Would this animal ever be able to trust or lead any kind of life resembling normal or worthwhile?  And the obvious parallel is how do I?

I’m going to let the photo below speak for itself to answer that question.  Hope is renewed.

After days of growling and biting his caregivers, he licks the face of Randy Grim, the man who rescued him.


running to the angels…

One of my favorite things to do is listen to webcasts and internet radio interviews.  It is there that I can find my favorite people and specific topics that are not only informative but soothing.  Once I put the earbuds in and close my eyes, its as if the voices are speaking just to me.

Recently  I listened to a online interview with Doreen Virtue, the angel counselor and author.  She, of course, was speaking about her angel therapy; how to recognize and interact with the angels around us.  Her gift is so awesome.  I always find her so reassuring and so certain of the presence of angels and ethereal helpers that I find I can ride along just on her faith.  At times when I’m questioning myself, I find her, God or whoever is in charge of angels more believable than my own heart.   I can very clearly picture Doreen as a divine messenger, fluent in the language of the angels spreading the love around us with ease and grace.  Its a role that I can see bestowed upon another, someone more deserving, someone more enlightened.  That makes sense to me in a self deprecating sort of way.

One phrase in particular that she said made me perk up and pay attention.  I’m loosely paraphrasing here but the message is exact.  She stated that once you feel that you are communicating with your angels, once you find your magic that you should run to the angels.  Don’t hesitate, just run to them.

Wow…what a beautiful message!  Run to the angels.  YES! I love it, I’m gonna do that….OK, how do I do that?

Holding onto that message throughout the last few days, I play with the idea of a meet and greet with my angels.  Let me back up and say here that I’ve always felt a presence, a energy bigger than myself, front and center in my life.  I don’t doubt that for a moment….it might be them, spirit guides, my beloved mother, God or a collection of all of them.  I do recognize their magic in just the beauty and abundance around me in my everyday life.  But I want to take this to a more intimate level and am wholly  intrigued with a more up front and personal relationship with my angels and how exactly I’m gonna run to them.

So, I go outside this morning and and under my favorite tree to see if I can summon up any thoughts on this angel thing.  I begin to picture them there, all around me; bobbing around, floating, hovering like little baby fairies.  But wait, I can’t run to them if I make them little, I will squish them.  OK, back to the visualization… I need to work with my human and literalist personality here….I close my eyes and make them bigger, more human adult size and dang, all I can picture is one of those sappy movie scenes where the two lovers are running through a field of daisies with orchestra music in the background.  I smack into one of my angels and we fall to the ground laughing.  Sigh.  This really needs some work.

I’m definitely a work in progress.  Incorporating time with the angels is something I will add to my life but for now, I need to relax a bit and  stop trying so hard.  I recall how Charlie Brown felt when he suddenly was “aware of his tongue”.  He stood still, somewhat frozen as he described the feeling of being aware of something that has been there all along.  His tongue, this meaty mass of connective tissue has been present every day for him, helping him swallow and chew, keeping things flowing in his mouth department.  But with a crazy flash of awareness, he doesn’t know what to do with it now.  So he stays still until he and his tongue reintegrate finally relaxing and moving on with his comic strip day.

I understand that.  I have suddenly been made aware of my angels again.  No doubt  I must be a very frustrating subject for my angelic helpers because I tend to get the more overt signs like billboards and bull horns, usually missing the subtle signs completely.  Thank God they are patient entities that look at my bumbling and stumbling with love and endearment.  Last year this time, they sent me an owl to stay with me for weeks until I finally saw that beautiful gesture for the magic that it was.  I did get it, but it took me a while.  But what I lack in natural aptitude I do make up with genuine love and willingness.

So, I come inside after my episode of angel bumping in my yard and sit.  Rosie hops on my lap and we close our eyes.  We opt for prayers of gratitude and sending love out to the people in my life.  This seems like a more appropriate way for me to connect in this moment. I’ll stop trying so hard and let the love flow through me.   I’m thinking this will make us all happy for now.


changing love…

Like running water, changing love finds its way past obstacles. Freezing it in place makes it fragile, rigid, and all too likely to shatter.

 –Martha Beck, How to Know It’s Real Love

I’m gonna keep this simple today.

I like to think  that being grateful for the vast array of coping tools has created a fortuitous space for another tool to come my way.  I’ve subscribed to Martha Beck‘s daily quotes for a while now, but have just in the last month taken the time to read her books.  I’m barely 50 pages in to the first one and I can already tell I’ve found a new friend.  Her books will be on my bookshelf and her tools will be in my purple tool bag in addition to the many fabulous people, animals, resources, books and music that have so serendipitously plopped in my lap.

My own emotions are tough enough to manage but when I smack against someone else’s confused and erratic energy, that is the ultimate challenge.  Especially if its someone I dearly love.

The complexity of my past and present propel me into an instant state of frozen terror. I’d barely read her quote, as in minutes before, when my daughter arrived, confused and frustrated. So keeping the focus on myself, the DBT  kicked in and immediately sensing the tension in my body, the frozen stance, I frantically begin to observe, describe and participate….3 biggies from the DBT world.  It worked or at least its working.  I’m not frozen, perhaps a bit off center but not too far gone that I won’t recover soon.

I sit in awe of the masters that surround me and say a quick prayer with gratitude in my heart.  It feels so good to know that love can find its way past obstacles.  We aren’t static, we aren’t frozen, we aren’t shackled to the patterns of the past.

Relief washes over me as I realize for a brief and fleeting moment what true hope feels like.



drowning kittens

Kitten Love

i scare myself alot when i remember too hard or too much.  i would prefer that i see tapes of waltons mountain or disney movies played across the insides of my eyelids but instead i see roaches crawling out my skin or shadows of a fiendish demon child.  this particular one drowns kittens.  so removed from her beautiful gentle soul, she finds a litter of kittens recently swept away from their mother by a powerful rain storm and attempts to hold them under the water until their eyes pop out and they stop struggling.

i watch myself as i fade back and forth from me to the one watching me.  the ground is soggy and full as i walk across the yard, puddles everywhere, my shoes are already full and the water up to my mid calf.  i hear the kittens before i see them and make gestures toward saving them, plodding toward them, hearing their tiny mewing, no mother in sight.  i’m suddenly impacted with what they feel; lost, too small to make it on their own, disoriented from recent events.  i gather them up in my dress holding them close and think about starting back toward the farmhouse.

i stop and look back over my shoulder for several reasons.

i couldn’t be more than 4 and yet i’m out here far from the house and no one notices.  for a brief moment i’m wondering if i am in trouble for being gone too long or too far.  yet i remind myself again that i am invisible.  its not a new feeling; one that will continue through adulthood;  i will always remain invisible to my family.  for one to be noticed, one would have to see or have vision, and neither of those characteristics my family possesses.  to put it another way, more accurately, children are simply livestock; at least in my world they were.

stripped of any unique characteristics of our personhood ,we got fed and clothed.  then the adults waited for us to grow up to become worthwhile in terms of our service to them.  time couldn’t be wasted on companionship, reading, learning, talking; our worth was determined by the chores we do, meals we prepare, amount of vegetables picked from the garden, or for our bodies given to the men for their lowly and despicable gratification.  for generations, this family has failed to make any movement from even the base level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs; its been this way always.

the shadow clouds my memory here, the heaviness spreading across my eyes leaving me with the quick, kick in the gut feeling of a memory so painful that my conscious just erases it.  selectively my brain intuits the bad information and the door slams shut. i suspect the little girl feels the kittens have no future without their mother and death seems the humane option.  the child’s reasoning is black and white only; no mother for love and protection equals pain.  death is preferred over that fate.  as an adult, it is so difficult to hold and speak for this tortured child whose brain has been forced to cope more in the dark side than the light and cannot see options other than provided by the ignorant.  her act of drowning the animals was a merciful one meant to relieve the inevitable suffering.  and even though her sweet gentle soul has already been splintered into a million tiny shards, she is unyielding.  she won’t stop sending messages through the mundane or the divine to get the help she needs to achieve grace for her broken soul; this lifetime or the next twenty, it doesn’t matter.  and that’s what i’m here for; to put us back together and stop this insane cycle.

i snap back and i’m holding a kitten under the water in the deep puddle.  it struggles with all its might, scratching my small hands and writhing for air.  i watch myself bear down on it harder and push down further, seeing small red lines appear on the backs of my hands, listening to the other kittens mewing hysterically.  i feel nothing.  absolutely nothing.  i should but i don’t.  i want to vomit while i write this because it isn’t me, not really me but yet it is and this is my attempt to let her tell her most awful secrets.  now she gets to say that things happened to her that made her do awful things that she so desperately wants forgiveness for, to be entirely heard and understood.  i will let her tell her story to me and i’ll repeat it for you.  i was and still am her host.  she lives within me.  her hands are my hands and we did this together, we tried to drown kittens. she must say it over and over because to know what it would take for a little girl to be so spiritually devoid of feeling, because the men continue to leave her in such intense pain that her brain splits only to return to take the tiny innocent creature to its death, making it part of the cycle of pain and relief.   i’m gone again.

my sister slaps me across the face and grabs the kitten from my hands.  i’m glad.  i look up at her with my face burning but am still glad, the hot pain of the slap is so insignificant.  the kitten is saved and for this one moment there is a presence out there who is monitoring us.  my sister in on guard and taking action.  not sure how she got there, but feel that i can rely on her for the moment to carry us through this.  she is so angry and annoyed with me but i don’t care, it doesn’t matter what she feels toward me as long as she continues stay present as i attempt to make sense out of me coming and going in the hellish existence of my brain.  i realize that my clothes are soaked and i’m shivering from the cold but still no one notices. my small shaking body are of no consequence but i do have the presence of mind to consider that i might be yelled at for adding to the laundry pile should i decide to change from my wet clothes.

my sister has the kittens wrapped in a blanket and is attempting to feed them some milk.  she will do this for weeks until they grow strong and able to make it on their own.  i join her in warming them and feel a strange spark of compassion that keeps me present while i nurture the feeling of wanting them to live.  i’m shaken to the core at the gigantic swing of my emotions; from dead and unfeeling to sobbing for them to live.  my actions are coming back to me, washing over me in hot waves and i begin the familiar routine of hating myself.  the heaviness is here, the type that comes from emotion so exhaustingly polar that i feel the sudden need for sleep.


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