A Journey Beyond

[xposted at Murmuring Woods]

 The woods are quiet, dark, and deep…

I wander along a pathway, uncertain of my destination. I only know that I must keep going. I seem to imagine things that are not there, such as brambles and weeds that want to trip me up, when in fact, the path is clear ahead. My perceptions are skewed.

Why do I do that to myself?

The trees whisper a sweet summery song. Insects buzz all around me. I had forgotten how nature calms me. I walk slowly, savoring each step. Here, there is enough time to do all that I want to do.

I come to the Well of Forgiveness, and stand in front of it for a long while, contemplating its meaning.

I must find a way to forgive myself for my failures. I must find a way to let go. I step up to the well-cover and push it aside. I gaze down into the Well’s depths, barely making out the pool of water far below.

“Goodbye,” I say, my words echoing off the stone walls. I toss in a pebble, symbolizing the energies that I want to remove from my life. I hear it hit the water with a satisfying “PLOP!”, and I do feel lighter somehow, as if a huge burden has been lifted with this one single positive act.

I turn to face the path once more, this time buoyed by Hope.

It has been many weeks since I came to Riversleigh.

I have been lost in a miasma of my own making, as usual. I forget to come here, to my quiet retreat, and instead, let the circular thoughts go ’round and ’round in my head. It’s very annoying.

I read with great interest of the impending publication of the creativity catalogue and am excited about its possibilities.

My room here is sparse, and I like it that way. Others have written of beautiful textures and furnishings, but I came here to seek the quietness. Real life is quite busy enough!

In one of my paper journals recently I wrote of my room here at Riversleigh Manor. I need to find it and post about it.

What I wish for today:

1. peace in my brain’s mutterings (shut up already!)
2. a quiet walk in the woods near to Riversleigh
3. an hour to muse in my journal about things other than my usual complaints (quelle bore!)
4. quiet time for meditation

I should be able to accomplish these things today; my delightful DD is going to be spending a few days with her grandmother and my DH will be working this evening. I will have time to listen to the REAL still small voice within, not that annoying Inner Critic who won’t shut up for five seconds.

Time will fly once again, as it always does.

The walk up the pathway was long. I wanted to turn back several times. Traveling here, to this place, was something I had longed to do for many years, but I had been too afraid to make that final step forward.

I was still afraid.

“What makes this time ANY different?” my inner critic (IC) asked. “You’ve tried to start over a thousand times. Your journals are filled with all the fizzled starts and stops. You hate yourself so much for making those plans and then giving up. So what’s different!?”

I hung my head quietly, a few tears rolling down my face. IC was right: I do start and then stop many, many things. My “studio” is full of half-finished stories and craft projects. Why would this time be any different than all those other times?

“But you have a big box of almost 70 paper journals. You didn’t give up on that,” Agatha, the inner friend AND muse, whispered. “Ignore IC. He always tells tales out of school so that you will feel bad.”

I brightened a little, thinking of those journals. Yes, I hadn’t given up on my journaling, no matter how deep in the depths of self-pity I had fallen.

“Just last night, you finished the small scrapbook of your cousin’s wedding (although, the wedding was back in September), using only materials from their invitation and photos you had taken. It turned out to be a nice remembrance, and you know he and his wife will appreciate the small gesture. Be proud of that too!”

Yes, finishing that token was an accomplishment, even though I had let my procrastination and perfection get in the way. I do finish things–eventually.

I could hear laughing, as IC let himself be known yet again.

I will prove IC wrong. I came to this place to find my Voice, the WHO I am when all my other labels are stripped away (mother, sister, daughter, employee, friend, wife…). I do not know who that Self is that remains, if all these things were stripped away.

First, I was a daughter: the good girl who never got in trouble; who toed the party line; who did just as she was supposed to do.

Then I was the wife: although I wasn’t Betty Homemaker, I still tried to do what I was supposed to do.

Now I’m the mother: a nonsexual, uncreative lump; dealing with working for a living, coming home too exhausted to play with my daughter, feeling drained and dispirited.

All this and more I thought as I walked up the long driveway. For the first time, I felt some hope that I would be able to find myself again.

Night came. I was so tired, but there was something important I must do.

The silvery portal beckoned in the distance. It had been so long since I wandered, anywhere really, let alone through space and time into a virtual realm.

My dreams missed me.

My heart missed me.

My soul missed me.

Did I dare answer the call? Did I dare NOT to?

I paused momentarily, waiting some sort of sign to continue onward, but as I stood there, lost in thought on a moonless night, I knew that no sign would awaken me. Only I could do that. So I stepped forward, and fell, like Alice down the rabbit hole.

After floating gently for a short time, I found my footing on a stone walkway, the lights of Riversleigh Manor House welcoming me. Unlike the real world’s cold death grip of Winter, the temperature here was fine and inviting. As I walked up the long pathway toward the door, I wondered if the temperature here was always so welcoming. I guess I would soon find out.

Welcome to this journey.