Toys from childhood; fondnesses recalled .
A tricycle upon which, at 4 or 5, I would flee the oppression of a constant wariness. Speeding the alleyways of wartime St. Louis. Alone now and too long forgotten the joy and the little girl who, grasping me about the waist would silently enjoy the ride; sometimes. She came to me in a dream riding it from the gloom into the light of us together conjoined smiling at me. (See C. Jung anima/animus. We are 51% dominant gender and 49% “other.”)
A kaleidoscope, dented, cardboard, second-hand, carried well into recent years; now lost in another leave taking. The fright fleeing flight to anywhere but there left behind. So dependent upon the gestures, trashing's, sidereal glances of accusation that I was the problem.
I think they may have been correct. I adore the phrase, “kaleidoscope eyes.” It is not what they saw in my somber appraisal 20/20 observation, leery of the woman who when not silent could explode; while dad was either comatose or indifferent. It was the internal mastication of everything and estimates of consequences. My consciousness recalled as being inside the dented tube; thought refracted in technicolor, silent save for the clink, clink of turning. I could read in her eyes the advent of killing me had I’d not known not to cry. But then, like the others gone now, she could kill with words as well.
Odd how we can recover physically but emotionally only with an dedication to being whole. No longer broken inside and out. Or merely squashed like a speckled gray and white moth upon the snout of a Greyhound Bus.
I was exiled to my maternal grandmother’s care. She lived on the Ohio River and behind her home was a huge tree amongst whose roots I played. Toy trucks, tanks, lead soldiers . . . I took and lost an image; the knees of wife and grandmother side by each. Returning I was grief stricken to discover the tree decapitated later on.
Recounting the joy continued now. The tricycle was escape. The kaleidoscope still twirling refracting music, light, thoughts, conclusions possible exceptions now. Knees and roots, The Tree of Life, every leaf of consequence to the origins of everything falling and being recycled.
My root is still there. All the elements in place. And only now do I know that though I am/was “Christian” the crown of the tree sees over every definition of prophecy swayed by what makes the Aeolian Harp musical.
The scars are healed. Now I know no fear of death or dying, quickly or slowly, since all things are in their place and within is a place for everything. Peace and Love be with you. Too.
An afterthought: Considering the current decimation of privacy--confession here--I too was the inquisitor of both parents as to the who, what, why, when and wherefore. Mom gave me the “Yha But!” She’d been told she wasn’t worth the salt in her bread. As for dad, “I didn’t know any better.”
Children love unconditionally. It is not dependence it is the purest love I know, at least in this life. To forgive our parents their failings, then forgive ourselves for the contusions, concussions and convulsions we carry forward those things we endured have an end. The end is freedom from hate and indifference towards all life, no exceptions.
“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.” --The Talmud
. . . The kindness we give to another may be the only kindness they’ll ever know. Inconsequential to us, but to the other it may save their life. As for wives, lovers, children and dogs they/we all should remember the kindnesses and forget/forgive the harm.
. . . a parting shot. Under the tree, after Sunday Supper, I’d play checkers with my granddad. The folding board sitting upon our knees. The only time I won he rocked back on his chair and the pieces fell to the ground. I’m still laughing; even had a dream that he was God laughing at me. Carl Jung: Grandmother = Great Mother, by extrapolation, Grandfather = Great Father? In either or any case he always was fond of telling me, “You are as crazy as a--either--bed bug or June bug.”
120421 08:08
If you read me, thanks, if not it’s okay by me, bye-bye. I take not myself serious for as found round and around I’m told we come from the same origins the rapist, raped and the lost never found.
As for the Tree, The River, Boats Barges and Trains. In dreams of peace loving I return the origins of my perceptions trained by steam whistle and tow boat plash, stern wheel then both, fingering the night with their moan and light. The only home I’d ever known until Now. . . .between the knees the tree . . . whatever.
. . . nowhere near Molly Bloom in a tutu
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