detox

There is so much darkness arising in the world - I cannot say that I pay much attention to headlines or politics, but I am not entirely ignorant of the things that are happening in my country. In the midst of everything happening around me, I have found myself wandering in the afternoon and getting lost in thoughts of things I haven't lit on for almost a year. I have lost - and found - myself so many times over the years, and it is time I regain that connection with myself.

It was the dry season on the central coast of California when my mother packed the car up and took me down the coast to Big Sur - crashing waves to the west and the sound of the waterfall thundering to the east filled my ears and the promise of exploring one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen excited me. Our hike was steep and difficult for my small body, but being with my mother out in nature fuelled the experience. Once at the top of the hill that we had challenged ourselves with climbing, I looked out over... clouds. There was a sea of white and grey clouds stretching out forever before me, and I could see nothing below them. We were so high in the hills that the world was wrapped in the foggy blanket.

I felt alive, on top of that hill. I felt complete. I felt all of the energy of the world held within the cradle of the cliffs and ocean that I knew was below us. I felt the divine energy of the universe around me. I was surrounded by the dry, golden grass that grew on the hill - but, even though the life seemed to have been taken away from the ground, I knew that it was still there. I felt the heartbeat of the land, the breath of the wind whispering and speaking wisdom to my young soul.

My mother's lessons on the divine were simple back then - spending time in nature was how she taught me about spirituality. They were profound lessons, and I will never forget any of them because of their simplicity. I knew that I was connected to the world around me, and I knew the truth that my soul spoke.

I have often wondered where (and when) the disconnect between who I am now, and who I was then, occurred. It has always saddened me that I am this cynical, unbelieving adult when I was such a free-spirited child. During a recent meditation to find the answer to those exact questions, I learned the answer.

Once my mother had started teaching me about the divine, I began paying attention to those around me and their beliefs - I wanted to learn as much as I could about this connection I had with the energy around us. During Sunday school (my mother was very open and supportive of my learning about different belief systems), I let slip my experiences with the divine. When asked what belief system we practised at home, I was honest with the teacher and told her that my mother was a Witch (my mother's label for herself). I was shunned and attacked for this, and began to believe that my personal experiences with the divine were wrong. It was a painful experience to have at such a young age, to be taught not to listen to my soul, to the wind and the waves and singing of thunder on the horizon. Everything that had once been so familiar to me was beginning to darken, to appear false. Since that day, in Sunday school, I have struggled with my soul, with my connection to the divine. I have fought against the pull on my heart to dance in the rain and sing songs to flowers.

It is time for me to reclaim myself, my soul - to relearn how to listen to myself and reconnect with the energy of the universe, with the divine. I am terrified that, once I open myself, I will no longer know what is what in my life. I am terrified of the changes that I know this process will bring about, but at the same time, I am ready to come home to my soul. I have missed the connection I once had to the divine.

The women on my mother's side taught me to trust my intuition, to listen to my soul - my soul has always known what is right. From a young age, a curiosity for the unknown was fostered in me, and I am working on bringing those magical aspects back into my life. It is the little things, the simple things - like a single tree blooming when the breeze still chills the bones, bringing the inspiration of Spring to the world despite Winter's desire to keep the land prisoner.

the fallen silk--excerpt

A plate of jam biscuits and a cup of steaming tea sat on the side table, and Effie moved around the room, carrying boxes covered in dust from the closet and placing them on the floor and the bed. She couldn’t put it off, she knew she had to go through her mother’s things, but there was a pain in her heart that wouldn’t go away.

Satisfied that she had enough boxes to fill a few hours, Effie sat in the centre of her bed and opened the first box—it was filled with journals and books and dusty, faded letters written on handmade paper. The writing was definitely her mother’s, and the subjects ranged from longing to excitement to a dark depression Effie hadn’t known her mother had experienced until recently. She placed the letters in a pile beside her, hoping to go through them all at a later date.

photo: lia leslie

The diaries were just as jumpy—some entries were so bright that Effie felt blinded by her mother’s happiness, yet scattered throughout the pages were such dark thoughts and feelings that confused her. How had her mother dealt with such a jumble of emotions? Effie stacked the diaries to one side of the letters, planning on putting them all together to form the story of Theola Wickes in a way that she might be able to understand her mother’s illness better.

The books excited something in her that hadn’t shown itself in years; the childlike wonder and curiosity of old tales and fables, the undying innocence of stories that taught morals and valuable lessons but still caused such a deep fear within the readers that they would never dare do what the characters had done. There were bookmarks made of cloth, leaves, bits of paper stuck between pages, corners bent; she felt that each page held a clue to what her mother had felt and thought throughout the years.

Finding these things made her feel closer to Theola, made the loss of her mother more bearable as if she had not died at all but was only away indefinitely. 

lacuna

Her finger traced the edge of the photograph, ran over the face of the person pictured—it had been six years, but the pain in her heart had not yet faded. Though he was not gone from the world, every day felt as though she had buried him instead of having been left by him. His absence had left a hole in her soul, a single piece of the puzzle that was lost and she could never regain, never find again.

She had no idea where he was, and she knew that even if she attempted to find him, it would lead nowhere. He had made his mind up, his decision rather clear—though he loved her, he could not be with her, and he could not bear to see her again. He had left in the morning, having gathered all of his things in the weeks proceeding his departure, and had given her a final kiss. There was so much longing, so much tenderness, in that single gesture that she wished she had stopped him; even years later, as she sat on her porch as the sun rose over the trees, casting its yellow rays through the branches, she remembered the feeling of his lips on hers.

photo: daniel peters

There was no point in daydreaming, in recalling those lost feelings and thoughts from a life she had left behind. There was no point in longing for a person who, most likely, never thought of her—but, even though she knew she had to let go, she could not bring herself to drop the photograph, to burn the letters, to erase his voice and his smile and his eyes from her memory. All of the pain these images, these memories, brought her could not, and would not, inspire her to forget the time they had shared.

He had finished the puzzle that was her soul, he had found all of the scattered and lost pieces of her mind and had glued them back together with his gentle touches and soft kisses. He had been the one, and just as she had always known would happen, he left. He left when he had realised that she was too broken, even after having brought her shattered pieces together, and it was too much for him. But he was not weak, she was just too complicated.

She had always known that she was not meant for the fairy tale happy ending—from a young age, she knew that she would end up alone. But it was the fact that she had found that love, that one person who completed her, and she had lost him. It broke her. She would never be the same again.

She set the photograph on the table and took a sip of her tea, watching as the shadows of the trees played and danced in the sunlight, as the soft breeze moved the branches—movement to her right drew her attention away from the scenery and to a figure standing just outside of the makeshift fence.

He had changed little since the day he had left—his eyes still held the mischief that had first drawn her to him, and his lips still pulled up on one side in a grin. He gave her a gentle wink with a nod, which sent a chill down her spine.

It had been six years, but there he stood, in his uniform, his bag slung over his shoulder, and it was as if no time had passed. It was as if he had never left, never said goodbye. He had found his way back to her, found her in the depths of the forest in a foreign land. She ran to him, opened the gate, and jumped into his arms. Her tears soaked his shirt, her sobs drowned out his calming whispers. She would never let go of him, she would never leave his side.

Perhaps, against all odds, against all of her feelings of being inadequate, she was meant for a fairy tale love after all...