Happiness
written February 3rd, 2022

Long ago I locked away
my happiness deep inside
to protect and keep her safe

It's been so long
I almost forgot
she was there

Now I try to remember
to reach inside to the spot
where she resides

every time I do
a soft smile touches
my lips and sometimes
                                          —more

Going in—Going out
written June 10th, 2021

I am an expert
at going—in.

My instinct is—to go in
into the hollows of my heart
where fragrant roses bloom
red raspberries are always ripe
and love never leaves.

My instinct is—to go in
into my mind
trying to chart
the optimal path
through this turbulent world.

My instinct is—to go in
away from this world
where there is no time or place
and I can drift
on currents of nothing.

My instinct is—to go in
but to find myself
the rest of my story
the rest of me
now I need—to go out.

Loving kindness meditation for multiples (or you)
December 18th, 2021

You are safe.
You are loved.
You are known.
You are never alone.

Loving kindness meditation is a practice where people think positive thoughts for themselves and then others. You can find scripts, audio, and video examples on the web. I adapted this practice for myself as a multiple who meditates. Each person has to find their own way to healing, but this has been one huge step on my path. Adapt as you wish.

Set a timer to go off every 2 minutes. The Insight Meditation app has a very flexible meditation timer. One part (we use the term part or other to refer to the others sharing this body) starts and focuses on another part for 2 minutes, and then moves on to the next part, repeat until everyone has been focused on, concluding with focusing on yourself. There are 5 of us and one who meditates, so this is how we do it. Please adapt the statements to things that are powerful for you.

For 2 minutes think the following statements while visualizing the other part:
You are safe.
You are loved.
You are known.
You are never alone.

It has been very powerful to stop after repeating these phrases for a bit before the next bell, and see if a part answers back.

Continue for the next 2 minutes with the next part. Repeat until each known part has been focused on.

For the last 2 minutes, send these thoughts to yourself, the part doing the meditation.

Thinking about showers
written August 7th, 2021

I am laying in bed
thinking about showers
with you.

I type to you:
How many showers
are too many showers?

You respond:
Are you taking showers,
or thinking about showers,
or thinking about
someone taking showers?

Oh darling honey-bun
I am thinking about
you taking showers
and me in there with you

the water flowing over your body
as my hands do also
sweeping over your shoulders
brushing the soap off your back

you lifting your hands over your head
as my hands slide down
your arms and then your sides
stopping at the hips

so the water and suds flow
around my hands
and over your hips
tracing sensual paths

the water touching
that part of you
that we both
want me to touch

but not quite yet sweetie-pie
for now feel the water
and know that I am
thinking about showers.

This poem happened during the lowest point of my life after 3 failed suicide attempts. I went on a retreat to a nearby monastery. It was such a peaceful experience in the midst of so much pain, that words can't really describe it. This poem is about one amazing moment during morning vigils. I do not identify as Christian, but this poem still happened.

Blessed Beloved: The Crucifixion of Jesus
written August 11th, 1996

At the 9th hour
Jesus hanging on the cross cried out
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Am I not your blessed beloved?

I know of a child
whose reality was anything
but blessed and beloved
who sat in the stillness of a monastery
watching the lights dim in the sanctuary
as the monks knelt in silent prayer

before the sun has risen
in the early morning
the soft light brings into focus
the simple crucifix at the front of the sanctuary

her eyes focus on the crucifix
on the myth? or man?
who died a horrible death
with nails through his wrists

the child who hurts so badly
finds someone like herself
in the eyes of the man not myth
who experienced such hurt
and yet is God's blessed beloved

she looks into his eyes
daring him with all the hurt there
but he doesn't look away
because he has also hurt

he has hurt so badly he cried out
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

in the eyes of the child he understands
that God so loved the world
that he made his blessed beloved part of it
he made his blessed beloved man, not myth
for only by having experienced
can God reach out and truly say:

I am the all powerful myth
but I am not some God on a pedestal
I am also you.
My son has died
not to become God
but to become you
so that you can look at him
in all his pain and glory
and recognize that you are also
God's own blessed beloved.

Good girl
written February 27th, 2021

I have always been
a good girl.
It was a role
that fit me well.
I took whatever
society-family-church
said I should be
and tried to be all of it
to prove - to show - to hide.

Certainly nobody would hurt
a good girl
and I was
such a grown-up good girl.
What could there be
in the life of
such a good girl
that I couldn't take care of
myself?

It's certainly the face I presented
and all the things
that didn't fit
got put
somewhere else
because it was absolutely essential
that I be
a good girl
and that nobody notice
all the things that were wrong.

Such a grown-up good girl
even if it was wrong
it must not have hurt
because I always
took care of
everything and everyone
until one day
I didn't anymore
take care of anything
or anyone
or myself.

But really in all of that
the whole point
was to not need
because nobody and nothing
was taking care of
the good girl.

Him
written July 8th, 2021

This is painful stuff, for me to post. I need to get this out of my "In Process Notebook" and into the "Finished Notebook." For me part of ptsd is avoiding anything about the trauma. I don't even want to call him my father, but that is who this is about. There are not graphic details of trauma in this writing, but there is some graphic language. I would avoid it if words can trigger you. Please feel free to skip this one and move on to something else.

-----------------

The other day, I stood in the kitchen, and had velveeta on saltines, a snack indelibly associated with, him, like the big hershey bars with almonds, that he kept in the cupboard over his junk drawer filled with screws and nails, with the shoe polish for our Sunday shoes kept below.

I can smell the shoe polish, unexpectedly real, that drawer and the shoe polish, and my soul recoils, instinct to flee as far away as I can get. There are memories, of him, that I have practiced remembering, until I don't flinch, at the thought of him, in my home - in my mind - in me still.

This isn't one of them. This one comes crashing through me, like a tidal wave, the love and the hurt. If it was just one, love -or- hurt, it would be bearable, perhaps, but that is not what this is, one or the other.

Love and hurt, together, shatter me, over and over, and I am broken glass, on that kitchen floor, all over again. I resolve, to practice this memory, practice him, until I can walk over the glass of these memories, keeping the smile on my face, and not want to flee.