Don’t Look for sympathy in teacups for there is none to find. Only the dregs of life’s disappointments and deep indignities.
Tea Leaves reading frustration for those seeking absolution.
Teacups shattered become teardrops racing down windowpane faces.
A pool of sorrows gathered at foots edge. Looking beyond the harbor waiting for the lighthouse to come ashore. Feet take root yielding blossoms at hand.
Musicians tune up. Our Maestro raises his glass in toast. Commence the Chamber music. Tomorrow the Garden Party begins again. What was broken now needs be made whole.
I couldn’t build a tree house. Too high up and anyway I’m afraid of heights, so instead I built this little fort of sorts as a place to gather my thoughts after a hectic day. Made my best efforts with whatever materials the forest floor offered up as building materials. There were enough twigs and branches to construct more ground level tree houses or make my current enclosure larger but I chose to save some for kindling for warmth against the chill night air and the rest I kept stacked as a type of cord-wood not too far away.
It has become my sanctuary and safe haven I return to again and again to re-connect with Mother Earth and nature. Too small to stand upright clicking my heels together three times was not an option so I was forced to remain seated. With some degree of discomfort I could lay down in a fetal position while I imagined myself re-entering an alternate womb to be reborn into better circumstances. Mine was a tepee without the buffalo skin covering all bones and framework.
Sometimes I’d hug my knees and rhythmically rock back and forth while repeating what I thought were calming mantras, occasionally wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole transporting me some place free from pain, misery and cruelty. Like a shaman I chanted using my homemade rituals attempting to silence the drumbeat of squatter voices incessantly chattering inside my head versus the declarations of the Family. They created a dissonance within the time frame continuum of my thoughts.
You see our house, if you could call that ramshackle structure; a hodgepodge mixture of stone, wood and stucco addendum and afterthoughts as different parts of the building were constructed at different times upon the whims the directors and caretakers.
I was forced to share this mishmash cottage with twelve other inmates, bordered on this expanse of woods providing me a refuge from leaky roofs, busted walls, peeling wallpaper, lukewarm baths, moldy musty scented showers, not to mention all the yelling, screaming, arguments, fights and constant disagreements of a house too small to accommodate the number of people residing within its creaky ramparts. The Family nicknamed it the Hotel California. You know the place where you check in but never check out. The nails across chalkboard voices of The Family were constant knife thrusts to my brain making daily life a constant battle that did not end even has the diurnal gave up residence to the nocturnal for they all snored, wheezed and gasped through the night abyss. The Family’s house sits on an oddly place piece of land, our house gives way to forest which in turn after several miles gives way to craggy, rocky shores of a steep cliff, where if one sits perfectly still you can hear the violent waves crashing against rough jagged rock formations that looked as though they were designed by the devil himself. It is said that in olden times there used to be many shipwrecks where sailors were either impaled on the razor sharp Stalagmites. Sometimes you can even hear the shrieks, moans, cries and groans of the unfortunate wretches mixed in with the howling winds.
So I periodically retreated to my exoskeleton asylum as a sentry medium between earth and sky. I can never turn my mind off completely but within my secret hiding place the voices were kept to a low roar and bid to change direction and pace.
The Kindling delivered me from The Family’s vocalizations. I tried to warn them before. I tried to silence the voices through escape, but it was not working so I had to try another plan. The crackles and pops of my campfire seem to be in sync with the screams and cries for rescue from the patients locked inside their rooms but eventually those voices will die out also, and then sleep. Blessed sleep. As I drifted off I thought I heard sounds creeping up on me. Maybe it could be…. Naw. How would those deviant mutations get all the way out here.
While pyrotechnics roared and exploded beyond the glen my dream state thoughts went to Calista and Cassandra those Kudzu Chia matronly tumbleweeds who wreck havoc and chaos wherever they spore and spawn and their equally troublesome and problematic one-legged Siamese twin cousins Morton and Milton.
So goes the old Nursery Rhyme. But those of us who have survived domestic violence and school or workplace bullying know better. Doesn’t matter whether you’re 4, 14, 24, 34, 44, or 54 words do hurt. They do damage. Evil speaking can destroy careers, relationships and lives. Gossip, lies, slander, libel, and innuendo can cause scandals that cannot be lived down by the innocent victim. Battling scandalous stories sends victims on a quest to either prove their innocence or force them out of relationships or jobs because trust has been broken. In the extreme bullying is a major cause of suicide. No matter how hard the victim has worked, how faithful or how loyal he/she has been family, friends, colleagues and co-workers all view them in the light of these newly found “facts”. Those at the receiving end have to deal with the shame of false accusations.
Church is not a sanctuary or refuge from gossip and lies though it should be. How many of the faithful have been shunned or ostracized because of untrue rumors going around against them started by jealousy and envy. Constant jockeying for so-called high level church positions, i.e. those they get you closer to the Pastor have split congregations and created nasty battles that cause the faithful to leave and never return. Trust me when I say the Seven Deadly Sins are alive and well on Sunday mornings and in Bible Studies and Prayer Meetings. Maybe they should be called Prey Meetings.
In the case of domestic violence the abuser telling their spouse or partner over and over again how useless, ugly, stupid, dumb, fat or skinny they are becomes a belief system then a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Lust, anger, jealousy, envy, greed are the many roots of conflict among humans. Innocents are degraded and penalized never really understanding their crime. Victims are disgraced, dishonored and humiliated. Basically you’ve been judged, convicted and sentenced without even the opportunity to state your case or refute false information. Victims are consigned to a living nightmare a personal hell from which one is always trying to escape. You’re entire life becomes one of chaos and havoc. The health toll is enormous. Fear, nerves, anxiety, insomnia, nightmares, headaches and panic attacks rule the day. Every avenue of escape is blocked. How many lives have been ruined because words once spoken cannot be taken back? No, words are not innocent. They can be used as brickbats, swords, spears and knives. Words are deadly weapons imbued with the power of life and death.
We become the fallen Angels caught between Heaven and hell in a purgatory ruled by satanic beings obsessed with the destruction of mind, body and soul. Lost souls wandering a hellish limbo of victimization. Victims and survivors forever search for the lifeline and lighthouse of rescue.
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 