Someone who will love you in all your damaged glory
On seeing the prompt I knew what to write.
Easy.
Then, my inner coward pushed forward and began shouting,
“It’s the first prompt! Do you want to be eliminated on the first prompt?”
Well, no. I don’t. Obviously.
I pondered alternative ideas. I googled the prompt (something that has worked in the past) and discovered it’s a book, a collection of short stories. Perhaps I’d relate to one and run with a theme or two.
Checked Amazon. Too expensive. But there was a PDF version. A free PDF version. Yes. I spent some time trying to download it but they wanted too much personal information. So, no.
I wrestled with this for about a day and then had to face the truth. My coward self, the version of me I try to ignore, disown, and deny, loomed large. And that tiny part of me that somehow finds courage when I don’t seem to have any spoke calmly and softly and said,
“You know what you want to do. And yes, you might get the boot, but so what, better to be booted for something that matters than something that doesn’t”
Okay. Here goes:
So, the only “someone who will love you in all your damaged glory” is God.
Once upon a time, that could have been eons ago, or just last week, in a place that could have been far, far away or just around the corner, it was the custom of silly young lovers who would probably break up within the month to carve their initials into the skins of trees scarring them for life to indicate their commitment to one another or just their latest conquest. Once the deed was done they’d saunter off hand in hand, or arm in arm never, or rarely, to return to the scene of their selfish cruelty. Of course, to be somewhat fair, they couldn’t hear the anguished cries of the trees that had lived for decades, sometimes centuries, in the woods, nor did they stick around to see the life-sap seeping out of the bark. They couldn’t feel the pain they caused or the grief and compassion of the other trees some of whom had endured the same vicious attacks and were forced to relive their own pain again and again in empathetic union with their kind.
No. They didn’t hear, or see, or feel, or care. But there was one who did. One who lived near the heart of the forest in the belly of a hill who may not have actually seen the crime, but she heard and felt it deep in her soul.
Merindah would awaken from the deepest sleep when one of her trees suffered. Be it a ruthless wind, fire from the sky, the axe or saw of a woodsman, or the selfish nonsense of some horny child, she would hear her beauties cry out and she would go to them, to comfort, to soothe, to weep and pray over them and to heal them as best she could, with special salves and ointments.
There were two seasons that were particularly hard on the trees, Spring and the winter solstice. The forest had little rest during these times. So many trees were tortured and murdered for the entertainment and rituals of humanity. At times, she felt her heart would never be whole again, her tears would run dry, and her beloved forest would never recover and there was so little she could do.
When she came across some pocket-knife-wielding child she longed to scold them, but all she could do was shake her stick at them because she had no voice and she had no letters to put up a sign or write to the king. With all her heart she longed to be able to do something, anything to stop them from hurting her beauties. But what? What?
How could she convey to those who brought sorrow to the woods the damage they did? How could she show them the pain and suffering they caused? Day and night she pondered on this until one evening, just before dusk she recalled a thing she’d seen her great-grandmother do. Would this work? Could this work? Yes, Merindah thought, it just might. A tiny ritual involving a little smoke, a little incantation, a knife, and a tiny sacrifice, this she could do.
So the next time she was wrested from sleep by the tortured cries of one of her beloved, she gathered her instruments and went to the aid of the suffering tree.
She placed a cool cloth on the open seeping wound and leaned her head against the trunk reciting in her soul the old prayers she had learned at the knees of her great-grandmother, then she lit the smoke lamp and took her knife from the folds in her skirt and began to peel a small piece of her own skin from her forearm. She held it over the crudely carved initials in the tree’s flesh and began to mouth the words she couldn’t speak, words of life and giving and love and healing, and soon under her gentle touch she felt the small piece of her own flesh begin to spread and grow over the lesion in the tree until it not only covered it, but had filled in the incisions, become new growth, and she felt the tree relax, the cries cease and the forest still and calm.
As she walked back to her cave, her home, her bed, branches gently grazed her shoulders, tousled her hair, and caressed her back, surrounding her with their love and gratitude.
It is said that she slept soundly and dreamed of breezes in her hair, the sun’s warmth on her face, and the good soil between her toes, and when she awoke with the dawn; her wound was completely healed as if it never was.
It is also said, that the children who had brutalized the tree awoke screaming and writhing in pain and when they were examined two sets of initials were crudely carved into their most tender flesh and left deep and lasting scars where only their most intimate lover would find them in the years to come. Since they could say with complete honesty that they did not make these cuts in their own or one another’s bodies, all were confounded by their injuries. But the children, although they could not explain, or imagine how, knew that they were exactly the same as the ones they had carved into the tree. And little by little over time the children learned to leave the trees unmarked. Instead, they’d paint rocks because it is the way of children to memorialize their passions.
(AN: Of course, I’m not speaking of literal children. Not even old wise women should be allowed to cast spells on children no matter how cruel or thoughtless they are, especially painful spells. No these are simply childish selfish people but that takes too much time to write.
Also, I have not been able to fully participate in Three Strikes due to health issues—-sorry. I miss reading and commenting so much. I will write for as long as I can. Sorry, this is all I can do right now.
1:49pm: therealljidol Three Strikes Morgenmuffel
22-3-6 therealljidol: Three Strikes Prompt 3: Morgenmuffel
I believe it began around the age of nine or ten, though why I cannot even guess. I went from a fairly normal child with fairly normal concerns and issues to an absolute morgenmuffel. I hated getting up. I hated mornings. I hated everything about mornings.
What I was like at bedtime I don’t recall. But by the time I was in my teens I was a dedicated night owl. I stayed up till the not-so-wee hours of the morning listening to the radio and loved every minute of my “private” time. To be honest, upon reflection, I believe that was a large part of my night owl commitment. I needed (as a profound introvert) time alone just to be able to exist, and in close quarters, in a home with two distinct families, time alone was a luxury for all concerned. So, I found mine by staying up most of the night. Which explains my “morning stuff” for that shared living period of my life.
It does not explain the reason I kept up the whole “do not wake me up!” attitude that continued even when I moved into my own place. Though maybe by that time it was habit and was as routine as the mad rush to make up for all the “snoozes” I’d had before finally getting my butt out of bed, in fact, it might have been a direct consequence of them.
My Morgenmuffelling was not confined to merely awakening in the morning, or whenever, but was something I had to warn hospital staff of if I had to go under general anesthetic. It appears that once a bear, always a bear, and I was actually informed that this was a thing not at all peculiar to me. We who are not morning people come out of anesthesia with as much enthusiasm as we do to the sound of an alarm, or a loving voice telling us to rise and shine. (I’ll give you shine!)
When I was hit with ME/CFS my days became nights and my nights eternal. I had all the privacy I could ask for but realized quite quickly that the illness-imposed exaggeration of my nocturnal habit was excruciatingly restrictive. Being awake at three in the “a” of “m” meant reading or writing or knitting or watching television with headphones because my neighbors were sleeping, so taking care of things like dishes and vacuuming, or even exercising were a definite no. My life disintegrated into an ever-growing pile of rubble and wasted time. This was no longer a luxury I craved, but a painful negative that cramped my already severely limited existence.
Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I learned something new and joyful. I love watching the sunrise. Of course, I was doing it from the other side of the clock. Being up all night I would get to watch the moon set—it does, it really does—and the sun rise. It is as if the sun is chasing the moon across the sky and I suppose it is. And it delights me. It fills me with joy and wonder.
I understand there are a lot of people who feel that way about sunsets. I get it, they’re pretty. And if you’re with someone they can be very romantic. But to me? Not so much. It is the sunrise that leaves me weak in the knees and moved to tears.
A few years back, the restrictiveness of being a night person just wore me down completely. It was no longer a choice or a necessity. It was another symptom of being chronically ill, and the symptom of the symptom was the chaos of my home and life. I needed my mornings back. I needed to be able to get up at a reasonable time and work (as much as possible) during workable hours. I needed, at least in this, to rejoin the human race. This need grew in me and weighed on me. So, I prayed about it. And then, because there was a lot on my mind, and I really didn’t expect to change a habit of a lifetime, I forgot about it.
But then, it happened. I started falling asleep at night and waking and not being able to fall asleep again. I might sleep from one to three, but I’d be up until eleven or twelve the next night. And little by little I got my mornings back. And I loved them! I mean, I really, really loved them.
I got to see the sunrise. I got to get things done. I began to catch up with life—a bit. And I started to feel less out of control.
Honestly, I went from being a dedicated night owl to being a morning person. Can you believe it?
In fact, I am such a morning person now I actually love to beat the sun up in the morning. Wait, let me reword that. I love to get up before the sun does. Talk about feeling powerful. I get to thumb my nose at the sun. Not that I would, but if I felt so inclined I could. It feels so good.
And you know what? I’m not a morgenmuffel anymore.
Now, I still have ME/CFS, so when I crash I’m still sleeping all hours of the day and night, and my schedule can be rocked back into Bats Ville again, in fact, I’m crashing right now, so mornings are a bit of a struggle. Though, now, the struggle is more about mornings being the goal and nocturnal living something to be endured but beaten into submission as soon as possible.
Now, my "muffelling" is about exhaustion, not private time, or habit, or watching the sun come up from the wrong side of the day, but honest cannot-lift-my-arm-to-eat-chocolate exhaustion and it can and will be overcome.
What started my child-self into an upside-down existence is not something I understand, but I’m so grateful that I can, and have, let it go.
Let’s hear it for the morning!
(Written for therealljidol: three strikes, prompt 3: Morgenmuffel.)
10:24am: "therealljidol"
Therealljidol, Three Strikes Prompt 1: Black Rainbow
Dad kicked us out.
“Take Ricky with you! And the baby! Go! Walk it off!”
I think Dad knew why we were fighting so much, and he probably thought it was Not Always who was at fault but he would have been wrong.
He’d laid down the law a couple of months earlier. Not Always could only come over if Bette or Dad were home, and we were strictly confined to the public rooms of the house. Dad was no dope, but he was wrong.
Ricky cheered and followed my lanky boyfriend to the door and to be helped into his jacket and boots. Boots he loved and wore every chance he could because Not Always gave them to him. Rubber boots that looked like cowboy boots, even had sheriff’s stars on the front and little painted spurs on the heels. “Vintage,” he told Ricky when he gave them to him. “Vintage is good.”
I busied myself putting Rosie into her stroller. She was normally a quiet baby, fussing only if she was wet, or hungry, but she’d been fussing, loudly, for the past two hours and no one could settle her down. We all knew that there were two things that never failed, being in the car and being outside in her stroller.
It was late. It would be dark soon.
I was in a big ugly huff and wouldn’t talk to Not Always. He contented himself kidding around with Ricky. Walking was good for him, part of his therapy. We took him out for walks all the time, though not usually at this time of night. I could hear them talking.
“What’s the book about?”
“Rainbows.”
“Really? A whole book about rainbows?”
“Absolutely.”
“What does it say about them?”
And so it went. Not Always explaining everything he knew about rainbows. They even spent several minutes talking about black rainbows and Ricky was so fascinated by the concept of a black rainbow that it became the theme of the walk. Every few minutes Ricky would holler, “Not Always! Look! I found one!”
“That’s great Ricky! See, it’s a reflection of that sign over there for the Rainbow Lounge in the window. You found it!” They high-fived and on it went, the search for the elusive black rainbow.
Ricky would tire soon and so he’d push the stroller for a few blocks and after that, Not Always would lift him onto his shoulders and we’d turn around and head back home.
The street lights were on and it was a little chilly. I checked on Rosie. She was sound asleep, bundled up in a snow suit and buried under her cozy blanket. I stroked her cheek, so soft, warm and pink. She was fine. Ricky was fine. Not Always was always fine. I was torn in a million pieces.
And I wrestled with every one of them while “the boys” continued their “intrepid search.” I smiled as Ricky found a rainbow in the ditch. “Oil slick,” Not Always said, and another high-five.
A few minutes later Ricky was hoisted onto Not Always’ shoulders, I’d been up there at a few games, the view is incredible.
“We should head home. Little guy’s pretty tired, didn’t want to push the stroller.” “It’s been a long day.”
Ricky was asleep by the time we turned into the yard. He’d wound his arms around my boyfriend’s neck, his head on Not Always’ head, snoring softly, as snug as the proverbial bug, probably drooling too. I couldn’t hide my smile. Dad took Ricky, nodded and said, “time to go home.” And Not Always began to stuff his books in his backpack.
I lifted Rosie out of her stroller and handed her over to Bette who was home now and needed some baby time.
I followed Not Always out to the truck.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me? ” He pulled me against him and sighed as he buzzed my lips softly. I held on to him tightly.
“We promised,” he said.
“It’s too long.” I groaned.
“You’re too young and it’s only a year and a bit.”
“Have you decided?” I asked.
“I’m staying.”
I moved even closer to him, pressing my whole body into his.
“They’ve offered me part-time at St. Pat’s after I graduate. I’ll be working with the kids, getting hands on experience with Dan and Brenda in the physio department and I can take classes at City in the evenings.” “And we can be together.” I purred.
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“What? When we go to college, that’s what you said!”
“You won’t be in college. You’ll still be in high school.”
I had two choices. I could cry and throw a tantrum, or I could yell and throw a tantrum. Undecided, my body stiffened in preparation for the storm.
And then he played his ace. He kissed me again, only this time he really kissed me and it wasn’t just a gentle goodnight kiss. It was one of those kisses that start on your lips but go all the way down to…down.
“I love you so much, and this is killing me, but it’s early days for us and I have long plans for you, and I’m not about to start breaking promises now. So, go easy on me, okay? This is killing me.”
We stood like that our bodies pressed into one another until Dad flicked the back porch light on. The next thing to come was a shout for me to go inside usually coupled with an insult. So, reluctantly, I pulled away.
“I’ll try,” I whispered.
I heard the truck pull away as I walked in the back door. Dad was digging in the fridge.
“You’re wrong.”
“What?” He said emerging with a mouth full of something.
“You’re wrong. It’s not Not Always that wants more. It’s me! I want more and he won’t.”
And I burst out crying and ran upstairs to the safety of my attic room.
(AN: Written for Therealljidol, Three Strikes 22-2-8. I'm adding some links to earliers stories about this family. Don't know if it's all of them or not, but it's some. Thank you for taking the time to read this entry.)
7:09pm: therealljidol Three Strikes
At least I think that's what this season is called.
In any case, I'm signing up.
I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure, but I just don't have it in me to outright skip a season.
(I really need to change that photo. Covid hair is a thing of the past!)
So, for those of you who have ever played, or thought about playing, or maybe just been curious about what all the fuss is about, now's your chance.
Head on over to therealljidol and sign up. It will be good for you. It will be good for me. It will be good for the world. You love the world, right? So do it. Sign up for the world! ;-)
4:41pm: Day 9
Exodus 20:20 – Moses said to the people ‘Do not be afraid. God has come to test you, so that the fear of God will be with you to keep you from sinning.
5:33pm: Day 8
Exodus 14:13 – Moses answered the people, ‘Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again.
7:09am: Day 5
Genesis 46:3 – ‘I am God, the God of your father,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid to go down to Egypt, for I will make you into a great nation there.’
6:45pm: Day 4
Genesis 43:23 – ‘It’s all right’, he said. ‘Don’t be afraid. Your God, the God of your father, has given you treasure in your sacks; I received your silver.’ Then he brought Simeon out to them.
6:06am: Day 3
Genesis 26:24 – That night the Lord appeared to him and said, ‘I am the God of your father Abraham. Do not be afraid, for I am with you; I will bless you and will increase the number of your descendants for the sake of my servant Abraham.’
2:51pm: Day 2
Genesis 21:17 – God heard the boy crying, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her ‘What is the matter, Hagar? Do not be afraid; God has heard the boy crying as he lies there.’
Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast [some] of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days: be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.
Now if Timotheus come, see that he may be with you without fear: for he worketh the work of the Lord, as I also [do].
(I suspect that the list I'm using may be off, or I need another translation. It seems to me there should be many more "Fear Nots" than what I'm finding.)
And so [was] also James, and John, the sons of Zebedee, which were partners with Simon. And Jesus said unto Simon, Fear not; from henceforth thou shalt catch men.
4:55am: Days 72-75
Day 72-Day 75 (Sorry, energy very low)
Day 72 Matthew 10:31 Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.
Day 73 Luke 1:13 But the angel said unto him, Fear not, Zacharias: for thy prayer is heard; and thy wife Elisabeth shall bear thee a son, and thou shalt call his name John.
Day 74 Luke 1:30 And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God.
Day 75 Luke 1:74 That he would grant unto us, that we being delivered out of the hand of our enemies might serve him without fear,
