Listening In

I feel like I’m floating as we move through the grass, my son’s hand in mine. He’s talking, I can hear the tone of his voice rising and lowering, muffled words shifting through my cobweb thoughts. The words are coming faster than my mind can keep up with and then are gone. He’s quiet, waiting. I missed what he said. I missed the moment. I grimace inwardly.

My heart and mind feel boarded up. “Keep out,” my body screams. Even to my children it seems.

What is happening? I wonder. Why can’t I find presence? I don’t have access to myself right now. What triggered this?

A low groan like an ache ripples through my body as if it were saying, “you know exactly what. You’re just not listening.”

I find pause. The children run over grassy field to greet their friends, gleefully racing hot wheels down a fisher price slide. I notice a ray of mottled sunlight floating back and forth and I lay back, try to breathe. Hand over heart, I say, “Okay, body. What are you telling me? What are you needing? I’m ready. I’m listening now.”

My chest is a hard wooden board, nailed firmly into place. I knock on it and a twinge of pain echoes up through the cracks. My body feels hard. Wooden. Unbreakable. Sad.

“What’s behind the wood?” I lean into curiosity, despite my fear of feeling more of the pain beyond the boards. Flesh shifts. Body opens. I see. There’s a small wooden house, if you can even call it that. It’s made up of multiple boards nailed together. No door. No windows. A box, keeping something inside. Keeping the world out. Curious, I lean in.

“What’s inside?”

Flesh shifts around in the darkness. Muscles open. Bones lift. I can see through wooden walls to a small, crumpled up girl, sitting on the floor of an empty wooden box, hiding from the world.

“Keep out,” she says.

“Get away.”

“I’m not good enough”

“I can’t do it”

“I’ll never leave”

“You can’t pry me out if you wanted”

“They’ll only hurt me if you do”

“The world isn’t safe”

“Whether I fail or not, it won’t be enough”

It is a little, freckled, mismatched, red-faced, messy-haired girl. It’s little me, sitting in a ball, telling me exactly what she believes.

I see.

I could tell her she’s wrong. I could break down her walls. But I don’t.

Instead, I say nothing. I move closer, sit down beside her, listen.

“I know,” I whisper. “I remember. You’re right. You weren’t safe, were you? For a very, very long time.”

China-doll blue eyes look up at me from a tear stained face. Her hair sticks to her hot cheeks and forehead, moist from sweat and tears. She’s been fighting so hard. My breath catches as I look into her eyes.

“What do you want to say?” I ask.

“I just need rest.” She answers. She takes my hand, sinks into my shoulder, and quickly falls asleep.

“We can stay here and rest together,” I whisper. “I won’t tear down your walls. We will stay in here where it’s safe and we will rest. You can rest.”

And we do.

The walls soften toward us like a balm on the ache in my heart. The ache is still there, rising up to my throat, spreading out through my shoulders and arms. A feeling of quiet bliss and white light radiate outward from my center, from the softness, colliding with pain.

“We can do this.” I speak, full of confidence, peace, determination.

I can sense that a tug-of-war could rise up between me and the little girl in the future, when I begin to resist feeling what is inside of me again (like I often have). But I resolve to return home to her when I do because I know I can’t conquer this one without her. I know that I can’t leave that little girl alone in the past. She needs me. She belongs in the present with me. And she deserves to see us win.