So anyway, while looking for this fretful baby
I catch sight of a pair of rats scurrying across the floor but
As they have plenty of places to hide under this rack or that
I shudder but choose to pay them little mind ...
While my focus remains engaged with
My quest to find this baby, who's still
mewing like a lost little kitten.
At some point, while in search of this vulnerable child, I spy those rats, sneaking from here to there, and though eying them sharply, my fear subsides once my intelligence takes note of this fact: In direct proportion to my self confidence strengthening, these scary rats have been shrinking in size until, left in their stead, are a pair of harmless mice, and as anyone who's seen Cinderella knows, mice are not to be feared, because as soon as the mind frees itself of fear, those little mice can prove mighty nice ... so much so as to be helpful when a stitch in time saves nine!
So here I am, searching through this darkened warehouse, filled with history and ghosts of every sort, when guess what I spy huddled into a tiny ball, next to the baby doll that I'd named after myself: Annie Moogins. (BTW: Moogins was not my last name. At less than three, my mind had mixed up the order of the letters, and thus had I mispronounced my last name to the amusement of all of the adults. Actually, at the age of three, my mind had mixed up a lot more than the pronounciation of my name ...). As Moogins had accompanied me when, as a tyke, I was hospitalized for scratching my skin raw, she proved to be a favorite of mine, so I was surprised to find her lying on the floor.
At any rate, this baby, who has been nestling against Moogins, stirs such an empathetic reaction from deep within my core as to cause a surge of heartfelt protectiveness to emerge as though to ensure that she'll feel safe from harm, forever more. And once I describe this frightened little thing, you'll see why she proves to be no ordinary child ...
Much to my astonishment, this feather weight proves no larger than a hummingbird with a broken wing, suggesting the necessity of holding her vulnerability tenderly rather than tightly in my hand. Upon lifting this wounded babe off the floor, I spy the cream colored port-a-crib that Will and I had chosen for Steven, because he'd been born when Barry was less than two and still in need of his crib.
As the port-a-crib looks freshly made up, I feed the unmet needs of this restless child, check her tiny diaper and when her bright blue eyes meet mine and her face lights up with a megawatt smile, I feel as though my tenderness has won more than her heart in that intuition has offered us reason to share in an unshakable bond of trust. Then, while snugglng this vulnerable being safely in my arms, I sit in the rocker and cradle my precious find close to my heart until sleepiness closes her eyes, so carrying her to the crib, I settle her down for a much needed nap.
Next thing I know, my peace of mind feels startled by a clattering of hoof beats coming from the reconstruction room, or so I surmise ... so with that assumption in mind, I tiptoe around the clothing racks in hopes of not awakening the baby, who, feeling securely loved and well cared for, has fallen into such a deep sleep as to breathe more peaceably than ever before. Upon reaching the wall that separates the warehouse (where stuff I've stuffed is stored) from the room where reconstruction goes on, I crack open the door, fearing that some kind of wild stampede may flatten me, but much to my relief, naught is amiss. In fact, upon taking a closer look, I get the feeling that some kind of surrealistic reassembly, which, seems so complex as to prove far beyond my comprehension, is taking place.
Though I feel anxious while trains of thought are undergoing reassembly, here is why my curiosity peaks: That clattering of hoofbeats, arousing my anxiety, has become even louder than before, so though I feel fearful, my spirit musters the courage to walk-the-walk around the tables, upon which I can see quivering coils of grey matter, processing through various stages of change for the better, and while heeding intuition's suggestion that silence is golden while this work that's undergoing chrysalis is achieving completion, I tiptoe around each area of reconstruction until my hand reaches gingerly for the knob that opens the door which offers me a view of that which is causing such a claptrap of noise, marching down that long, endless corridor, and—let me tell you that upon catching sight of what I see—my eyes turn into a pair of Slinkies, which bug so far out of my sockets as to bounce across the floor …
At that point guess who flies into view? The spirit of Socrates, swooping down just long enough to whisper words of wisdom into my welcoming ear: Annie— if you don't somehow retrieve clarity of sight, your blindness to self demeaning beliefs, will be responsible for trampling your best character traits beyond recognition for the rest of your life!!
Heavens to Betsy! I can't let that happen! So thanking (rather than killing) the messenger, I take note of the fact that clarity must be mine!
Thank goodness, I make a practice of listening astutely each time intuition guides me to heed the wisdom of the sage, who invariably encourages my intelligence to choose the path of self discovery whenever I spy a fork in the road. Then, upon choosing the road less taken, I gain insight into self awareness, which illuminates personal patterns to which I'd been blind. Needless to say, layers of denial can't slough so that bigger pictures can emerge while life is stampeding all around me.
In hopes of sloughing each next layer of denial, my spirit must muster the courage to retreat to a safe haven, where my mind feels relaxed, at least enough to expand my innate ability to think deep—and that's why my choice to retreat must not be confused with turning into a scared bunny rabbit, shaking with fear, seeking to hop into a hole as soon as anything arouses the instinct of danger drawing near.
So anyway, rather than jumping blindly into the middle of that mysterious fray, thumping noisily down that endless corridor, I heed the sage and kneel down in hopes of retrieving my eyeballs, and thank goodness, I get lucky while my hands search across the floor, because once my peepers stop rolling around like marbles, I scoop them up, plug them in, and get a wide-eyed view of personal patterns, which my newly sighted self awareness had never seen with such attention to detail, before!
And now, if mysterious noisiness, thundering through the corridor, arouses similar sensations of curiosity within your mind as is true of mine, well ... please tune in when part 3 of my dreamscape describes the flabbergasting scene, which is sure to march across our screens when the sun comes out, tomorrow,
Your friend,
Annie
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