The deluge of information that I had haphazardly gathered together on my cyber journeys of the past two days came together en masse- and finally, made it crystal clear to me what had to be done.
First of all, I made the momentous decision not to go to the gym today. I took the phone off the hook, told the maid not to disturb me under any circumstances, pulled the shades, lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, and began the breathing techniques I'd read about in one of the rebirthing sites, visualizations I'd seen in another site and the relaxing techniques I'd found somewhere else.
This morning I had watched an interview with Hank Wasselman, a shaman, who spoke about ";the Sacred Garden"- the memory of some place where they had been before, that made a deep spiritual impression on them, as a place to some spiritual gardening. This was where I set out to go and begin the process of retrieving my soul. There was a spot, further up the river where my brother and I, as young children, hiked to only on days when we had a lot of time because it was far. Just the fact that it was hard and painstaking to get to was of itself enough to make it a special spot. It was a bend in the stream, with an ample hospitable sandy beach on the inside of the curve.
Maybe it was because it seemed so cut off from the rest of the world, particularly from the worries and uncertainties that occupied my juvenile psyche at the time, or the quiet and calm that seemed to permeate that spot, where the jolly stream itself slowed to an amble and took some time out from it's hurried flight- but some thing about it incensed and enchanted my childish imagination.
In my mind the two of us were the only humans to have set foot on that sand bank for hundreds of years. Before that, the only others who might have known and revered that spot were the gentle Indian tribe I was convinced had inhabited that forest in a far gone time.
As I made my way to that spot, ducking through the branches, I realized that there would have been no way I could have known, the last time I saw this place that it would be such a long time before I would go back.
Dodging the branches on my way through the forest, it occurred to me that I never would have imagined I would some day be returning to that spot so many years later. Much less that it would be on a mission of liberation, trudging through treacherous terrain, braving pain and agony at each point of my life where part of my soul had gotten left behind. This would be no walk in the park.
Revise the breathing. Relax. Keep it rhythmical, under control.
Through a clearing I found the first instance of myself. That little girl with the messy hair, immortalized by my father's unflattering portraiture of me and by my mother's eternal "your hair looks like a rat's nest". There she was, draped over the table top, crayon in hand (the left hand- which my mother was convinced I used simply out of contrariness), page tilted to the left, right hand under right cheek, apparently favoring the right eye, happily drawing page after page of horses. It was her.
My soul.
I felt acute pain sear through my heart like a knife.
Where have you been?
I could feel hot tears welling behind my closed lids, and the hurt in my chest intensified- I remembered what I was there for and immediately took control over my breathing again. This calmed me some what as I began a dialogue with this unusual little girl.
";I want you to come back with me. I promise everything will be different from now on." I said to her, not completely convinced I would be able to keep my promise.
No, she said, and started off a new page, a new drawing, creating a new story. I was fascinated. I can't say if ever in my adult life I've ever known a child to draw with such passion. And I saw myself at school, drawing on paper plates because I couldn't find paper, drawing a comic serial about a super hero I entitled Mr. Mod. And there I was again, at my friend's house, watching her draw horses and learning every detail of what made her horses better than mine. ";Don't worry, I will protect you, I promise." ";From you?" she asked accusingly.
I am distracted by this fascinating child. There she is, trudging through the woods, searching for arrowheads, playing Indian princess- jumping from stone to stone over the streambed, catching minnows- free from all in the safety of the woods. Here she is writing a whole book and illustrating it to boot, proudly copying it over in her neatest handwriting, putting the chapters' headings and page numbers and sewing it all together with a piece of yarn. It is a joyous, engrossing process and I am profoundly impressed by this child.
There are no second thoughts, what has to be done is done.
The second guessing starts after she shows one of her ouvres to her father or mother. She is perplexed and profoundly disappointed by the fact that he doesn't seem to receive the joy with which she creates these things, but rather preoccupied with making sure she knows that he is better. Ah, there! See? A piece of her soul has been stolen.
Her mother doesn't even look at the page but rather ";the rat's nest" and intensely annoyed by the fact that she insists on wearing pants. Another little piece is pilfered.
"Where did you go?" I blurt out when suddenly something totally unexpected happened; the tables are turned on me.
Rather than being the one with the power as the adult comforting the child, I find it is actually she who has the power- that it is ME who needs HER.
It is SHE, that little girl with the messy hair, who is ME. Without her I am the proverbial empty shell. She is unique person I'd never allowed myself to believe I was. She is my soul. The tone of my plea changes. "Please, come back with me. I need you. I miss you. You are so incredibly special. Please come back with me. "
"Why should I come out, if every time I do, another little part of me is stolen?" Everyday a little more, until now, there is hardly a thing left. I am safe hidden here in the woods. "You do not protect me! You yourself permit this thievery by repeating and repeating all those lessons they taught you."
And the tears well up and overflow from my closed lids, and suddenly the pain seems so unbearable I don't know where to turn. Then I remember what I've come here to do. We will bring back the soul. We will be braver than the pain.
Breathe.
I take the time to control my breathing in spite of intense duress, and I make a concentrated effort to re-think who I was then, and re-bear the self image of that amazing little girl and my heart starts to calm and fills with love and pride for this little girl who is me, lost alone in these woods for so long. "Come with me to this special place and let's sit together" I say, and offer her my hand.
And I wonder if this little girl could feel pity for this old tired woman who pleading for her help and I know that ultimately she won't say no, although this woman I am today who might. All the more reason to need her by my side.
As we arrive at the river bank, I can tell it is late autumn. The leaves crunch and scuttle under my feet; I can smell the crisp heady aroma of their incipient decay leaves vaguely poised in time by the brisk cold air. It is peaceful here, yet somehow sterile.
We find our seats on the boulders strewn into place by some ancient flood and wait for the next visitor. Soon she arrives through the trees on the other side of the river.
She Amanda from high school, and I can almost see the hollow spaces of lost soul around her. She is taking drugs, she is lost in the promiscuity brought on by the times and her own need for approval. She has already had an abortion. She has quit school. She is suicidal.
"Come join us over here," I say hesitantly. "Let's talk."
But she is better off alone. And I see her withdraw into the infinite, inescapable vacuum of inadequacy. Then, when she thinks no one is looking- I begin to see something more. And I am fascinated to discover she is writing practically compulsively; poetry, novels, short stories, plays, journals; she is painting, drawing, she is insistent on playing the guitar and singing- but it is all done alone.
And I can see how badly she needs to be told she is worth something, yet too scared of rejection to insist upon a search of approval. The only ones she might show part of her work to are the very same ones guilty of picking away at her soul like vultures on a carcass. Them, and of course, myself.
I cross the river myself, to hold her in my arms and tell her how amazingly special she is; that it's not her fault that no one came to help her before. And I see in her all the glory she so carefully hid out of fear of ridicule and I find I am now sobbing uncontrollably.
"I don't want to lose you!" I cry. "You are me! I need you back!" I was blinded by their sentencing- please forgive me. I want to flow with creativity again! "Please come back, I promise we will all stay together" And I wonder if that girl, so urgently in need of help herself, could find it in her heart to help this old crone who claims to love her. And I know she would. Then I remember.
I start to breathe deeply again and consciously steer my heart out of the pain and into love. So continued we continued the mission, the three of us- to those disappointments, those betrayals, those misunderstandings, and we brought us all together on that sand bank and I could feel the sun penetrating my bones and the pungent smell of the thawing land, the imminent glow of yellow green heralding the impending spring. And I brought us all under the embrace of my love like Nut the Eyptian sky goddess.
And there I have my answer.
