Super Natural Woman

Words : Counting On Me

Tuesday, Feb 3rd, 2008

This eve, after taking care of a few more minor details on my account, the steady fan of the heater, is interrupter by an ancient apparatus that I am no longer attached to. I regretfully, leave the quiet of my dining room, where I have become accustomed to hunkering over an old massage table, ingeniously transformed into a desk, of the perfect height, by my brilliant Son. I dutifully, answer the shrill, insistent ringing of a telephone, as relentless, as I am tenacious. From a squatted position, leaning against a pile of packed boxes, I listen into the receiver. Holding the handset, far from my ear, I carefully arrange myself, accordingly.

"Hi, this is C...", I hear on the other end of the wires."C...?" I repeat, more to myself, than anyone else. Alright, I have a niece, by the same name. No, that isn't quite her voice or her tone and demeanor. She repeats her name. Now, I remember. This is the abused and traumatized Mother who had her child taken away, when he was 5 years old. Or, was it 3? The boy who's name she changed 2x, is now 8. Or, is it 6? She has to sneak onto the playground to visit him, at recess. This is when she is really desperate. Since, she only gets to see him for 4 hours a week.

My son sleeps soundly as I click away at the keyboard. Like the long, raking, nails of a well manicured old woman; clickety, clickety, click. I remember her panic, I see the face she peers into; insisting how ugly she is. She takes bathes many times a day, to calm her nerves. To keep her from going crazy. She's paranoid, half the time. Wondering "Who would want to do this to me?". Continually demanding, "Why would anyone want to do this? Soon arriving at the despairing destination: "I'll never get him back". At her last court appearance, the judge spoke of her parents and the past. All the unrequited pain came up to haunt her, and she did not fare well. Her son stayed with his foster parents; her sister, who once held a knife to her throat, while stoned on crystal meth. She is told she will never get him back. She is starting to believe .. it.

Only because my eyes are beginning to blur, from missing one more night of sleep, I condense my words as I reveal the patchwork quilt; unconsciously woven by a girl who was never parented and became a parent, in spite of all the love she was not shown. She did her best. Apparently not good enough for a few with too much say in the matter. Its the little boy, I am most concerned with. He has to look up to someone. Certainly not a senseless system that hopes to slay one more hopeless woman. He needs a Mother, right now. More than ever before in her tumultuous, tossed into a stormy sea of a loveless life. She had better recognize her own goodness and beauty. "Be the reflection that he must see to survive", I strongly urge her. This is essential. Her only real job.

"But, your angry. You have rage. They took your son, too. You got him back. But, still ...", is passed my no longer wandering way. "There is no comparison. What is this? A pissing contest!" I remind her. It took me a mere 8 months to get my son out of his deplorable situation and years, still, to work through the endless torrent of emotions that often cast their darkened shadow. "Your the strongest woman I know", I am reminded. And, she is meeting them all! At her group therapy, "A native woman has 5 kids and 3 are in foster care; arid, still, she wants more!" I am told. She doesn't understand any of it. Why should she?. This is not what she is supposed to do. I tell her to buy a journal. I recommended this marvel of a coping skill, before. She wasn't ready, then. Could happen, soon ...

I am going to hold her hand in court. See her through this godless thing. Help her to find her way clear, to the other side. Support her healing. Be the friend she must, first, be, to herself. Teach her to trust, by being the shining mirror, smiling, honestly, back at her. Keep her heart open and her mind turned off. Allow her to vent for a short while and give thanks for the rest. Show her my heart and not my empty hand. Give her hope and offer her a safe home to lay her weary head. Remind her to dream of her own beauty and a tomorrow filled with her blessed boy. Touch her softly upon the cheek and wipe one more tear, gently, away. Hold her, when she begins to fall. Remain grounded, in the face of her seemingly endless fear. Be the key to unlock a wretched door, that was once, so willfully, shut in her face.

We only met once, a few years ago. A mutual acquaintance referred her to me. Someone else, who hadn't done their own work. We didn't talk for 2 years, when she was really angry, and began, really venting. Besides, my son had not been returned, yet. I was caught up in my own torture.Her mind is clearer, these days. So is mine.She is still depressed. Receiving some support and guidance. Learning how to trust her instincts. Know the difference between what's locked up inside her monkey chattering brain and what the soft folds of a full heart feel like. Reaching for the light, she is coming closer to her own perfection. Removing her sweetest soul-self from a severely dysfunctional family, to realize, she is creating one of her most mindful own. Seeing past the bullets shot into her wounded and damaged spirit. Digging deep to remove the burning embers of ashes that shall no longer remind her of a death that need not occur.

Love is a lesson. Lessons in Love are Forever. Love is Always.

For those wishing to further facilitate and support the healing of oneself or another ( one of the sanest sane ), please call me or contact me, via email. Conscious consultations and counseling are what we co-create. Let us bravely, begin ...

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