Tales of Hope and Love

This past week has been blissfully uneventful. However, I do find myself reluctant to fully relax into the peace and content; isn’t it always calmest right before the storm? What twisted crisis will my life and / or psyche come up with next? Breathe. Keep breathing.

In terms of beauty to record, a tiny dream has come true this past Saturday: I have been wanting to paint stones for a long time (with acrylic colour, it’s a thing). This unexpectedly happened when my sweetheart and I visited his family - it’s just a tiny, ordinary thing, and yet it made me so happy. I searched for suitable walnut-sized stones and spent a long time basking in the springtime sun, painting them with tiny patterns, symbols and figures.

I was at the main train station today and laminated block-colour sign in blue and yellow caught my eye. Right underneath was a sign with Cyrillic words. Oh, I thought, there must be a demonstration about the war in the Ukraine. Then stopped in my tracks when my eyes followed the signs - there were several of them - and caught sight of an area zoned with orange barriers. There were tables, a few people in yellow vests and a handful of people with backpacks. They looked exhausted.

And then it hit me.

These were no signs for a demonstration. These were signs for refugees who arrive here by train. Leading them to strangers who can hopefully point them where to go next in a world that all of a sudden makes no sense anymore.

Finding out about Inner Child Healing has been an unbelievable game-changer for me. It only took one therapy session to work out the connection between my  long-gone childhood, my relationship with my parents, their relationship with each other, and my very current, very urgent, very debilitating anxiety and jealousy. For such a long time I physically reacted to certain triggers, unable to get a handle on them. And now - pouf. Gone. We went to my sweetheart’s female friend’s birthday party on Monday and I expected to be shaking with insecurity and jealousy. It had always been this way, whether I wanted it or not. This time, however, I was calm like early morning. I even enjoyed it. And I dare to believe that growing is possible.

I taught a storytelling seminar on Saturday that I had been working for over a year. It was a success and this is what I want to spend my life doing.

For the first time ever and due to my commitments, my sweetheart and I spent the weekend completely apart. I expected separation anxiety, but remained calm and even enjoyed having a Sunday to myself. Attended a friend’s delightful Bachelorette Brunch in the morning - so much laughter, so much kindness, so much benevolence. Worked on some storytelling tasks, went for an evening walk, played the harp for over an hour, and will call it a reasonably early night, maybe even meditating before I go to sleep.

And I will keep mulling over the result of my last therapy session - I need to re-evaluate my job situation and consider making serious changes in order to make more room for what truly fulfils me: Storytelling and music. Working with my anxious mind and existential fears is tough, but one step at a time. What’s meant to be will find a way...

Thursday: St. Patrick’s Day Someone I work with also loves Ireland - I had totally forgotten about this. She sent me a sweet message first thing in the morning, wishing me a Happy St. Patrick’s Day. It brightened my day, and then I bumped into her at lunch and she suggested we get a drink after work to toast to the Green Isle that means the world to us. I almost missed Pilates with my sweetheart and I was tipsy, but it was so worth it. (And made up for the failed tattoo appointment...)

Friday: World Storytelling Day Had a gig and told one of the most somber, heaviest stories I know. The audience was so touched; someone wept when it ended. This is what I want to spend my life doing.

In the light of everything that is happening - not too far from here at that - everything I could possibly say seems trite. Lives like mine are literally blown up while I am upset over a disagreement with a friend. I pause, mid-rant, and wonder how I can be so self-absorbed. 

I feel helpless and the most useful thing I could think of was donate the donations of a fairy tale tour I did on International Women’s Day to UN Women. Strangely I felt a bit better, but this really, really shouldn’t be about me feeling good about myself. Instantly I feel bad and helpless again, when it shouldn’t be about me at all.

The surge of compassion for the refugees brings tears to my eyes for reasons manifold - I am both touched and appalled because where was all this love when refugees from countries less like our own came seeking safety in our land? Instead of open arms they were greeted with frowns and what felt like torches and pitchforks. And I can’t help but wonder if the majority of us are entitled hypocrites. It is the 21st century and apparently the sender of the bomb that destroys your life makes a difference to the unspeakable tragedy happening to you.

The patterns of anxious cycles are as familiar to me as the inside of my coat pocket. I know the onset, the haze and emerging from it, and the blissful period that follows thereafter. 

Right now, it is still bliss, and as every time, a part of me is convinced that it will never happen again. (More parts of me know better) 

These are the Days of Tenderness. It is hearing his familiar sounds from the bathroom. The way he scratches his head when he is carefully putting his thoughts into words. The way I look at him, headache-stricken from under the blanket, overcome with affection and thinking, I know there are hundreds of men out there who would be a good match for me, but right now, I don’t want anyone else.

Today is a special date and I am going to take this as the excuse for not posting on Sunday, as was my (newly established) custom.

Indeed, something quite magical happened: When I opened the door to go out for a walk after a day at work that can only be described as viscous, I caught a sweet scent. The tree beside our house is in full bloom and I hadn’t noticed until this very moment.

I’m one day late. (Posting this, not with my cycle, thank goodness.) And this time, it is actually because I was too busy being happy.

Yes. Last weekend’s emotional tumble was followed by a series of revelations whose brevity were only matched by their intensity.

I imagine, texted my friend who held my hand through all this from thousands of miles away, that the hurting part of you is not current you, but a much younger version of yourself.

What sounds like a no-brainer really hit me. This wasn’t purely about the incident, but about something that happened many years ago, and potentially also other things that aren’t even on my conscious level. So, for the first time in this degree of clarity, I identified my core wounds of Trust and Abandonment. When I was single, it was very easy to ignore these hurt parts of my inner child - however, if I want to go deep in my relationship, there’s no getting past them unless I turn inward. And perhaps also open up to my partner about them.

I am no fool though. I have been through anxious bouts often enough to know that it will happen again and again, and still I don’t know if I am able to handle the triggers that will come back to haunt me.

I should have written this post when I felt inspired a few days ago. No, I then thought, it’s such a lovely Sunday night ritual, I’ll wait. I’ll still remember what I wanted to write about.

Well, tell you what, it’s Sunday night now, I have no idea what that other inspiration was, and this weekend wasn’t anything I thought it was going to be. Another couple of days in the thick of jealousy and, just to mix things up, overwhelming sadness. 

Be that as it may - I am convinced that I can squeeze at least one drop of goodness from the weariest of days. And today it is this:

Despite some hardship, this was a wonderful week.

For one, a long-treasured dream came true at last: On Monday, I became the owner of a gorgeous Lyon & Healy concert harp. It has a golden crown and the vibration of its strings deeply touches my heart. For so many years I have longed for such an instrument and now, as if by magic, it is in my living room, forever mine to have and to hold. I am so in love. 

Then, regarding my relationship issues, I made a quantum leap in therapy this week. What sounds like a no-brainer was actually news to me: Instead of projecting onto my boyfriend, I have to find stability, security, ease within myself. I need to be able to give to myself what I demand from him. Only then can I see him for who he is, and relax into the differences that are to be expected between two people. I need to be aware of the areas in my life where I feel secure, and tap into these resources when I find myself clamouring in desperation. It is amazing how every time after therapy I can look at him with fresh eyes and see him for who he really is. A kind and caring man.

This week I was, once again, riddled with relationship anxiety - something I am not even sure is a thing really, but the descriptions fit the ebb and flow of my mental state so well that I’ve decided to go with it. Sometimes, calling the demon by a name helps already. Knowing I am not alone with this. (Because I can’t even share it with my partner, which might be a problem in itself but - )

We won’t go down this rabbit hole tonight; I’ve stewed in my own juices enough for this week.

Instead, I’d like to capture a precious moment. It was the morning after the full moon. I got up, groggy (my new normal, note to self: check iron levels of blood), not excited for work (my normal normal, note to self: put more effort into having your art pay the bills). Traipsed into the kitchen to boil the kettle, then into the living room / my work-from-home office - and paused.

The bright full moon stood over the lake, pouring a passage of light across the water to what felt like the edge of my garden. My entire being relaxed and breathed in the beauty of this moment. What a precious gift from life: A full moon over the lake at dawn. I let myself take it in for several minutes before getting on with my day.

Week 2 of my Writing Project, and already I am struggling. 

Not for lack of trying; many times my fingers have flown across the keyboard, only then to stutter and come to a halt. Caving in under the ambition of transforming Big Thoughts into words, and then surrendering.

This instant there are 55 minutes left of Week 2 and I am determined to stick to my plan. So instead of chewing weighty issues (doesn’t life always have a plentiful bouquet on offer?), I will devote these last minutes to the written word, in every possible meaning.

This new year has granted me unexpected respite and, as a bow to my younger self, I dedicated the free time to reading. It seems though that I didn’t read the books; I inhaled them. Slipping between the pages like cozy sheets, bundling up in a story, was as comforting as a warm hug, a kiss on my forehead. 

Knowing myself, this is not going to last long - already my schedule is filling, my free evenings slipping away.

Here we go again: A brand new year has dawned. I still revel in the magic these first few days hold, marvel at their purity like freshly fallen snow. I also know that their fate is the same as the heavenly sparkling flakes’: In a few days, it will be nothing anyone would ever pay loving attention to. Gone is the freshness, the magic, the... potential for something extraordinary.

Knowing this full well, I abstained from forming any grand New Year Resolutions at the end of last year. I know that in 2022, I will still be tormented by jealousy and insecurity around my boyfriend’s female best friend. I will still look in the mirror, wondering how anyone could ever love me save as a stopgap until something - someone - better comes along, even with my boyfriend sleeping in the next room. I will still feel that no matter how hard I work, I will still fall short in my own comparison to others. These things aren’t solved with a champagne-inspired proclamation on New Year’s Eve.

The ending of last year, however, became an unexpected reminder of the secret magic of ordinary things I have neglected while trudging, marching, storming through the slushy remains of the freshly fallen days of 2021. A walk in the woods. A few minutes of meditation. Writing.

There was a time when tumblr was a great source of inspiration, a place hidden from the public where I had found a precious, meaningful community of likeminded people. Most of them have, like myself, wandered away from the screen into their own lives. I still like to imagine that we are still connected by the silver thread of memory, reminiscing wistfully about the time when we would share quotes, images, dreams - before realising that in the end, quotes were just someone else’s words, and becoming too busy trying to afford going to the places we used to collect pictures of, chasing our dreams or forgetting them on the side of the road.

What remains unchanged is the incomparable flavour of solace and inspiration that writing brings. Pouring my heart onto the page, dressing my thoughts and feelings in the most fitting words, even if no one will ever read them. I will know they are out there. I write, therefore I exist.

So this is my project for 2022: To write. To put virtual pen to screen once a week. To revel in the beauty of words, let them run through my fingers, roll over my tongue. To grant myself a secret sanctuary in an unpredictable world, a cave of treasures to keep my thoughts.  

I thought that once I enter a relationship, all my problems would burst like bubbles, evaporating into blissful nothingness.

Ha! Very, very incorrect. Of course, bubbles did burst, but they were made of illusions rather than problems - not evaporating into bliss, but settling down in a sticky mess I can’t get myself out of.

I think and think and think, sometimes also of the words a wise person once wrote: I have thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

And keep throwing myself down the wormhole of rumination, sometimes even supercilious smile on my face, calling it doing the work.