Before the age of three
My imaginative spirit
Danced around singing:
I a princess
I a ballerina
I a cowboy
I a horsey
I a puppy
I a lion
(Ravi, being iPad savvy, sings:)
I Elsa
I Cindaella
I Ariel
I Spirit
I Simba
At the age of three, a child’s imagination has no bounds. I, like Ravi, was whoever (or whatever) I chose to be until tension, crackling like lightening through dark clouds of grief, engulfed my little corner of the world within a state of terror so darkly confounding as to have hotwired my intuitive powers to go to great lengths to save my loved ones from succumbing to relentless rip tides of emotional pain that dashed each other’s spirits to the rocks; however it was not until recent years that Fate offered me reason to grow so self aware as to perceive of my empathetic presence as having drawn forth a heartfelt sense of inner strength that proved much more soothing to others than I'd consciously known ... and at the same time that I'd remained blind to that deeper truth, my conscious awareness remained blind to this one, as well: In addition to having swallowed my self assertive voice, I’d been taught to draw forth my smile to act as my umbrella whenever my spirit felt need to grieve over a heartfelt loss of my own, thus serving to exacerbate my sense of inner conflict by separating the depths of my pain from my conscious (self protective) attitude, which defied reality by clinging bravely to my perennial position of positive focus while tears, left unshed deep inside collected into a turbulent ocean of repressed grief, which was bound break through my dam, giving way to waves of angst so powerfully overwhelming as to crash through my wall of denial, drowning my life force of every last drop of energy, leaving my spirit, sans sparkle, feeling so gravely bereft of life sustaining sunshine as to suggest why my self protective smile, like that of The Cheshire Cat, was eventually seen languishing alone midair while the rest of me disappeared suggesting that at times when hope (for change for the better) feels utterly beaten by mixed-message-madness, tis wise to remind oneself that cats have nine lives!
At the age of three
I was not meant to seek refuge from anxiety itching for relief by scratching at night while my life Force drifted dispiritedly from one loved one's frown to another by day ... however that was my fate until such time as my defense system kick started my intuitive powers to snap to attention, breathing life into the silent, yet deeply observant witness, whose processor grew up to be an astute, self disciplined detective, assembling details that construct bigger pictures, concerning both sides of human nature, whenever puzzling situations arise, today.
Before the age of three
My survival instinct kicked in to jumpstart my intuitive need to leap over the classic nature of early childhood's egocentric development in favor of deeming myself The Family Fixer after subconscious fear had planted the seed of that ambitious 'plan' deep within the anxious portion of a precocious preschooler's brain when it became apparent that not one adult think tank could conjure up a magic wand so powerful as to banish dark clouds of sorrow, which had descended over our kingdom ever since our precious baby could not be awakened from her perrenial nap, and as no magical fairy or charming prince, cantering upon a prancing white steed, appeared to rescue any of our spirits from this tragic spell that extended over many months during
The confounding aftermath of Janet's irretrievable loss, and as
Nothing I did could lift the gloom resultant of my family's agony, today's intuitive stream of consciousness-raising offers us the clarity to spotlight why an imaginative child's innate power of association breathed life into stories highlighting Cinderella's heartfelt kindness, The Ugly Duckling's loneliness, Sleeping Beauty's awakening to love's first kiss, and most especially, Snow White, who like Eve, had need to bite into an apple before awakening to the knowledge that after her Rip Van Winkle-like sleep, she had many lessons to learn concerning personal need to muster the courage to empower her voice with a self confident sense of assertiveness, thus ensuring that she'd not look back some day to find that subconscious fear had denied her the freedom to live life to the fullest, and with that truth in mind, did I consciously embrace the humility to identify and nip my self defeating attitudes in the bud by rescuing my diminished sense of self worth from deflecting my lovability so defensively as to grow toward absorbing love flowing toward me as heartfully as my sincerity offered it, openly and freely, thus disempowering my self defeating pattern of defensive self protection from provoking misunderstandings that most assuredly swerved my survival instinct toward pitching curve balls that dizzied the heads of the most self assured batter, who'd stepped up to the plate, hoping we’d connect, only to find himself striking out, back in the dugout, scratching his head ... And that begs the answer to a series of questions, which, having dizzied my smarts, catalyzed my conscious awareness to feel stymied concerning my subconscious need to embrace one of three roles:
Was I the character in my life story in need of saving?
Or
Was I the voice-over narrator?
Or
Was I the character whose valiant sense of courage had
Gained the lovestruck inner strength necessary to break every wicked spell that the fickle finger of Fate might cast across the peaceful path of any person whose distress chanced to intersect with my life, like the lonely stranger whom I’d invited to Thanksgiving dinner, one year, followed by the stranded damsel in distress, whom I'd met by chance at our airport and welcomed as a houseguest for three days while everyone who knew me rolled their eyes, shook their heads and laughed aloud as if to say ... there she goes again, saving the world, one person at a time ... and though the brevity of those anecdotes describe the generous nature of my empathetic spirit, let's be reminded of the anxious side of my mind, which had laid in wait for the other shoe to drop as if by dropping my guard, I'd feel as abandoned and lonely as had been true before the age of three, which, corresponding to our precocious Ravi's age, today, brings to mind a little girl, whose active imagination, knowing no bounds, literally stands before us in her princess gown, waving her 'madik' wand over our heads right before her sweet kisses soothe our boo boos away just as our kisses magically soothe hers ...
Interesting isn't it that the word grave slipped ever so
Quietly into today's train of thought, early on ... as though
Janet's tragic demise made all the difference, concerning
The choices I've made over most of my life until such time
As my magical mind and my smile’s irrepressible strength of spirit
Collapsed into a state of utter exhaustion, and having known
How much my spirit had loved to laugh and learn, and
Fondle, tickle, tease and frolic ... you can see why
Every atom that had shaped itself into a woman named
Annie felt utterly compelled to figure out the primary
Source of my inner torment, and unless you're new to
My blog, you pretty much know how I grew from
A frightened (yet always strong spirited) child, whose
Conjoined fears of death, emotional abandonment and
Bullying-mean-mindedness had silenced the assertive
Side of my voice from rocking boats until recent
Growth spurts inspired by self respecting leaps of faith to
Offer my sense of emotional intelligence reason to develop the matured sense of self assured readiness to work single-mindedly, toward restructuring a refortified sense of my diminished self worth by discharging myself from feeling personally accountable for ensuring my extended family's connection to emotional safety, thus freeing my creative center to refocus my think tank upon conjuring up 'Three Step Fix-It' plans (which inspired my sons to develop existential voices of their own) so as to tame subconscious bouts of anxiety by shoring up a peaceful sense of self disciplined mental serenity at those times in life when others seem to have more screws loose in their heads than my intuitive sense of deeper truth suggests is true of me, and in hopes of working to sit my defense system in time out in order to free my processor to think smart while remaing heartfully connected to minds so reactive as to spin toward defensive angst as quickly as our Dreydls spin each time Chanukah rolls round, I’ve grown to control my emotional reactions from dizzying my sense of equilibrium to spiral off its newly rebalanced axis by calming my natural uprising of anxiety with this deeper truth: By drawing forth patience I can rely upon my intuitive awareness to coach my mind's proactive need for positively focused change to maintain the peacefulness necessary to relax inner tension before my spirit runs out of gas causing my brainstorming solution-seeking plans to fall short of success
And thus do we come to see why:
My intuitive powers thought the time was ripe to invite
The word grave to make a cameo appearance at the beginning of
Today's post, highlighting my inner need to grieve and
Bury, not hope, but rather my subconscious attitude of
Negativity, which had waited for the other shoe to drop ever
Since I’d felt emotionally abandoned within a nightmare at
The highly imaginative age of three, when Fate undermined
My strength of spirit, which, if deeper truth be so bold as to
Speak aloud today would most assuredly declare
My wholesome sense of innocence utterly determined to
Free itself of angst-driven anxiety so as to feel as
Positively focused, through and through, as is
Humanly possible for any person wit an egocentric
Defensive survival instinct to be, though
Another deeper truth suggests reminding myself that
None can stoke the human mind to feel
Perpetually happy, hopeful, creative, serene, courageous
Positively focused and high spirited when the political
Powers of leadership act so crazy as to turn blind eyes and
Deaf ears to the thunderous fears that are running
Rampant throughout our entire world, today
And though this is not an up note to end on, tis time to
Recharge the intuitive wand inside my head that taps into
The mindful magical majesty of memory, which, conjoining
Proactively with the creative center that exists within
Every human brain, inspires my heartfelt eagerness to
Switch tracks from writing of grief and guilt and graves toward Fetching Ravi, whose happy spirit feels as eager to enjoy
Today's mutually enriching play date as is true of my own ...
And if I surmise that my writing style, which tends to rhyme from time to time, falls closer to
The Cat In The Hat than The Sound And The Fury then finding myself landing midway between those literary giants is not a bad place for a writer to take a stand, suggesting if it ain’t broke don't fix it and if it is broke it might not be mine to fix ...
No comments:
Post a Comment