Comforting The Wounded Child

Thich Nhat Hanh says there is a wounded child in all of us in need of comfort and needs to be brought into our mindfulness practices in order to facilitate healing.  He talks about bringing her along on meditative walks, maybe even spending a whole week with her, etc.  As flippant as I’d like to be at this concept I can’t find it in me.  He’s right.  The wounded little girl in me has been sending up flares for me to pay attention to her for a long time now. I’ve just thought it was a way for my anger to flare at my Mom in retaliation to all of her self-centered demands for things like they never were when I was growing up.

Memories of being hit, of going hungry, of being isolated in corners while my mother slept have been coming up in my mind.  Of remembering, or rather not remembering, my mother ever showing me how to clean house, just demanding that it be done, and yelling or spanking me when it wasn’t done right.  Of being called stupid, weird, strange, fat, pig, etc.  I won’t allow myself to believe these taunts, beatings and shunning were malicious, intentional attacks on my as a child, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I guess this harkens back to the whole “getting in touch with your inner child” psycho-babble of the 70’s and 80’s, but as I recall, that just encouraged the rich and self-indulgent to be childish.  This isn’t about getting in touch with your “child” but the “wounded” child.  Two completely different entities.  Christ talks about how we need to become as children, but He was talking in faith, in wonder, in guile.  The wounded child had her wonder and guile taken from her.  Luckily I still have my faith.  I need to work at bringing her back to that child-like state and get away from the angry, child-ish frame of mind.

It seems appropriate for me to comfort her and pay attention to her because I’m trying to re-raise me as well as my mom.  To not only be the mother to her she always wanted and for me to be the mother to me I never had.  An integral  part of that is going to be spending time with my wounded poppet and comfort her, tell her she is loved and wanted and that I am grateful she was born and is a treasure if to no one else but me, and I value that treasure beyond all worth on earth.

I’m not sure how to apply this concept though.  Do I schedule something on the calendar or do I try to remember it in my daily practice and life?  I hope she tells me what she needs because I don’t want to mess myself up more than I already am.

A Night @ The Opera

Went to see Turnadot at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House.  Puccini’s final work.  My understanding was that he didn’t finish it.  I don’t know how much of it was finished before he died, but it was finished perfectly on stage.  The spectical  of opera always lightens my spirit and my mind.  The talent of the performers, the costumes, the stage dressing….AMAZING.  I’m blessed to have a friend who loves the opera and invites me along. Turnadot is my hero and my new favorite opera.  She was cold, unfeeling and sort of a man hater, but she melted and cried when she finally fell in love.  She gives me hope that I will feel again and maybe find love…beyond the concept anyway.

Had a bite to eat at the Blue Muse by the garage I parked at and played with my phone and just enjoying my own company.

The opera soothes the savage beast as well,  as shampooing the carpet.  Something far more respectable in my opinion.

Writing is Exhausting

So, I wrote 10 pages in my journal last night and it dried out my brain.  I’m worried that I won’t be able to do the amount of work I’m going to need to do in order to get my current project edited and scarier still, I won’t be able to put the work into the one I’m shopping around when it gets picked up by a publishing house.  Doing blogs doesn’t do it because, though I’m writing, I’m skimming the cream off the top of my brain, the ideas that are easy to reach and discuss.  Last night I was trying to figure out why my body was protesting the idea of getting some sort of bariatic surgery to help me get well.  I had to dig through dust and move through the psychic hoard with a shovel.  Though it wasn’t ‘creative’ that normally burns me out like this, it was work and it made me feel like I’d worked all night long even though it was only a few hours, I got it done.

What is the point of recovering if all I’m going to be able to write is light extemporania and not plumb the depths (okay, shallows) of my vast experiences to write about?  What’s the point of going forward with anything?