When I can’t hear the music, I know it’s time for me to stop in life and regroup.
There was never a time of reprieve in the home I was born into. There was chaos and abuse on the daily. A time to reflect and be still just couldn’t be found.
After I left my marriage of 18 years at 35, it was time for me to learn myself. Part of that journey included times to be still, times to reflect and times to just listen to the music.
At 35 I had no sense of what I wanted or who I was. The only identity I had, was being a prisoner to someone else. Image my ex-husband’s delightful surprise when we married and he learned he could do anything to me and my children and I would just accept it!
Being a mother was the highest my senses were available. And, at that, my senses were not very high.
Healing my grotesque past often felt like a time journey, wherein I could not survive it if I didn’t take it at speed that I could tolerate. I’ve questioned myself and wondered if I could have healed any faster?
I don’t know the answer to that but I don’t think I would have wanted to.
The collision of my past and present have proven necessary steps to redeeming those torn, broken pieces of me. It is also like an intense, internal torrential rain storm. I could always tell when that storm was becoming too much for me to bear: I could no longer hear the music.
Part of this journey has been to listen to my body, learn its needs and pay attention to times of refreshing.
As another ugly piece to my hideous path is played out in the mind’s eye and dissected by my heart, I have learned that the speed at which I recover is up to me. I can leave the memory, half intact, for as long as I need to. If I don’t want to return to it for a year – so be it.
I control the speed of my healing. I honor and respect my need to take memories at a pace I can bear.
When I can feel the beat of the music and hear it’s melodic tune in my soul, I am ready to dive back in.