People are asking me how my holiday was and I’ve been answering “spiritual.” WTF? Where is that coming from? Usually my peace comes from a good yoga session, an exhausting run, a rhythm with the ocean, sleeping in, waking slow. I’m grounded by a good book, a better friend, cooking a decent meal, laughing loud and long. I didn’t have much of any of that while I was home. No yoga, no run. Each morning I woke at 5:30am… usually from jarring dreams that rattled me awake. The equivalent of being rudely tossed out of slumber. While I read the books didn’t give me safe passage. So, what gives? Why the word “spiritual” to describe what a week ago I couldn’t even put words to?
I think I know. I think I get it. Discovery is knowledge. Knowledge lends itself to understanding. Understanding is the foundation for acceptance. There is peace in acceptance. Bingo. I learned a little more about myself through my mother’s history and that has brought me home. Spiritually. I get it now. This revelation brought me hope.
My mother said, “I block those times out” and that’s when hope arrived. I was this close to replying “I know what you mean.” I was this close to yanking open the closet door and letting the skeletons tumble out. It seemed like an invitation to confide. My hand was on the door, turning the knob. I could have done it…but I thought too much. How would she feel that she is the very last to know? Would she be offended, would she be hurt? How would I explain my distrust of her reaction 30 years too late? Time doesn’t heal all wounds. And wound her I would. Hers would be fresh and raw while all mine have scarred over and hardened into indifference. So instead, I let go, looked in my lap and said, “I can see why…” With that, the moment slipped away. Wine in hand she walked away. The closet door stayed closed.
~*LunaSea*~ 