How to Heal 

I’ve been refraining from writing in my blog lest I present myself as enamored with personal Tales of Woe. This blog should be a happy place, my safety zone, a place of Joy and Peace and Healing.

When I started this blog in 2005, I was unaware that it was a creative way of managing my stressful life.  It was an exciting, new method of recording my life experiences. I enjoyed the immediacy of communication and the right to freely publish  without restriction or fear of terminology I used or the political correctness of my words.

However, I was also unaware of how purposeful my blog had become.  It was not only a digital memory of life experiences, but it had transitioned into a way of encouraging my creativity. I was going to design the blog in my fashion, post when I felt like it, and express myself through my life’s journey.  It’s an amazing source of pleasure to know that I did this by myself in a small room surrounded by clutter and disarray.  

It also was the place where I could tap into my light to illuminate the world in which I lived.  Through reading my posts, I could witness my own shortcomings, failures, successes, events that helped to shape me. I could recognize my hand in manifesting the chaos that I surrounded myself in without judgment. 

But smack dab in the middle of all of that positive reinforcement and motivation, I was also inadvertently reinforcing some queer beliefs that lingered underneath the posts. They hung out in the shady cracks and crevices of a story I was telling. 

But that story no longer serves me.

I’m not a victim nor a child any longer. Oh sure, I have childlike qualities which are a permanent part of who I am, but I am in charge of my own destiny. 

May you come to discover the real true you. Remember, as long as your heart’s in the right place, you’ll never go wrong!

I left breadcrumbs so that I could find my way back as I traveled through the wood.  At my lowest point, I’d almost forgotten where they lay but cast aside my doubts when I spotted a cottage.  Lit from the inside with an appealing, warm light, I observed it from a distance. I was afraid that someone or something would open the door and chase me, but nothing did.  I waited a long time and drew nearer so that I could walk around and test my resolve.  To my surprise, I discovered that it was empty inside.  Hesitantly, I pushed the front door ajar and walked past the threshold. The cottage was sparsely decorated: a pale green rocking chair, a tiny end-table, a trunk and a cot.  The floor was littered with leaves and dirt–which I had a hand in tracking in–and a circular, woven rug lay just the foot of the rocking chair I sat in to rock myself to sleep.  I awoke to the sound of rain and felt a few drops on my forehead. The ceiling above me began to leak from other spots too, so I turned my torso to the left while still seated and saw a set of narrow cupboards against the far wall.  I got up and opened each cupboard one by one, finding a pail and some chipped red clay pots to capture the rain in the ceiling that cried.


About Mema

I've been at this blogging thing since 2005, but I don't consider myself a veteran AT ALL. My posts are mostly well-meaning, fun anecdotes with the occasional random thought and a dash of humor for good measure. So sit back, relax, and stay awhile. And if you decide to browse elsewhere, just're missing out on an opportunity to meet (arguably) THE GREATEST PERSON THAT EVER LIVED. Overstated? Well, why not stick around to find out? Your call, tough guy. Or, gal. Or, martian.
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