Invisible Wounds

I dreamed last night that I stumbled into the mouth of the cave where the Ancient Crone dwells. I ripped open the front of my gown and over where my heart lies beneath, was an open wound, angry-red and oozing blood. The pain that centered there but radiated out into every fiber of my being was excruciating. I fell to my Mother’s dirty, worn feet and sobbed pitifully, “Help me! This won’t heal and I can’t stand the pain any longer!!” I wept and screamed for the agony of that open, festering wound. The Crone stroked my hair with her gnarled, veined and wrinkled hand, calming me and gently asked, “My daughter of light, what have you done to care for the wound?” I looked up at her rheumy eyes, my own eyes blurry with my tears. “I don’t understand. I just want it to be gone,” I cried. “Daughter,” she sighed. “The wound won’t heal unless you attend to it. It will only get worse if you try to ignore it. You need to take care of it. For only then will you ever be whole and free of this pain again.” Understanding dawned on me then. Yes – some wounds need special care in order to be healed or they will fester until the poison of infection spreads. In my dream, the Mother then led me to the river to attend my wound and to heal, I then woke up. I lay in my bed in the darkness for some time, understanding coming to me in the early morning light. I recently experienced a betrayal that was quite devastating, took me completely by surprise and left me with an enormous, ugly and painful wound on my soul. I’ve struggled so much with wanting to just get over it, to move on, to forget about what happened, to act like it did not leave any impact on me. Most of the time I (thought) I was managing quite well, but more and more, as time went on, instead of the pain lessening, it became more intense, more unpredictable and I felt more confused, hurt and angry. Time heals all wounds? Not always. In cases of emotional abuse, yes, what I went through is emotional abuse, we need to journey on a path to the river to cleanse our wounds and heal our heart and soul. Bodily wounds benefit from cleansing with soap and water, bandages, antibiotics, rest and time. But how do we care for the wounds of our hearts and souls? These wounds are far more devastating than any hurt to our skin or bones, but we tend to ignore them, push them back and deny their existence. Doing so creates an environment where healing is not only impossible, but fosters conditions where festering, sepsis, toxicity and eventual death – death of our self-esteem, our confidence, our ability to trust – occurs. I realize that The Crone was telling me that it is not enough merely to let time pass in this. To heal and come out of this with my soul intact and still pure and filled with light, I need to actively engage in cleansing my soul, protect the wound, and salve it with realizing and accepting that I’m worthy of only the highest love. This knowledge and belief is my soothing balm. Surrounding myself with only those people who are good and loving and true is my bandage, and the dignity and authenticity in which I life my life and reflect that onto others are the healing waters that will keep me clean and safe. I am able know to understand now that it doesn’t matter what he did. For he is nothing. What matters is that I spend time healing. And that means I will polish the treasure that is me, guard that treasure a little more wisely now, and continue to share myself with my world. I’ve lost nothing from this mistreatment. In fact I’ve gained much: wisdom, heightened intuition and an appreciation for all who love me, including myself.

Dancing in the Red Shoes

I awoke from a dream in the middle of the still and silent night. In my dream I approached the cave where the Ancient Crone dwelled. I’ve visit her often in my dreams. This particular night, I was dancing out of control, unable to stop - spinning wildly, my flaming hair a whirlwind, my clothes tattered and flying about me.

On my feet I wore those red shoes I could not remove. Shoes that were not made by me but that I foolishly allowed myself to be tricked into putting on, only to find that I could not remove them not matter what I tried. I had danced and danced.  These shoes were made by a man, a man set out to deceive and hurt me. These shoes were not of my own creation. At first the dancing felt so sensual and exciting. It made me feel free and bold and daring. Soon though, I realized that these shoes and this dance were not me and I longed to return to my barefoot state. My natural state. My true state. Too late I knew the shoes could not simply be taken off and I although I came to loathe them and the shameless, erratic dancing, nothing I did made any difference. I continued to spin out of control, whirling past and around my soul in a frenzied uneven rhythm. I loved the feeling the wild dance brought, yet I hated what it was doing to my soul, for I was consumed. I was mortified that I gave myself up to this killing dance, yet I couldn’t get enough. Wispy images of excessive thinking, meaningless and unsatisfying sex, fantasies, lies, obsession, drunkenness, loathing and fear whirled about me as I approached the mouth of the cave.

“Mother, please help me!” I pleaded to the Crone, desperately screaming and weeping, “I can’t stop and this dancing is killing me!” 

 

“Come my child,” My Ancient Mother soothed me and held open her bony, tattooed and scarred arms to me, “These shoes are not for you.” I collapsed at her feet in a puddle of writhing. The Crone pulled out a small sword from the folds of her tattered garment and to my horror and with any hesitation on her part; she swiftly and brutally cut off my feet. Blood spewed forth hot and wet, soaking the floor of the cave, blackening the gray, cold stone. The agony was excruciating!

“It hurts! It hurts so badly I can’t bare it” I screamed, watching my crimson, blood spill forth. “Only for a bit,” my Mother reassured me unsmilingly, “But you will soon thank me. For this is the only way you will ever be rid of the dancing that is killing your soul.” I did not believe her. As much as the shoes had hurt me and were clearly not made for me, without the dancing I felt ordinary, plain, bored, tamed and domestic. What did I have now to excite me, distract me from the mundane, entertain me and make me feel alive, fill me with desire and make me feel alive? The pain was unbearable and I would have given anything to have the shoes back on. 

The Mother removed my clothing, and despite her frailty gently lifted me in her arms and carried me, trailing blood, to a serene, crystal-clear pool of water in the middle of a sun-dappled forest where she gently immersed me in the pool’s depths. “Rest now my child of light. Trust that all will be as it should and you will heal,” she gently but firmly told me, and she turned and left me alone in my agony and tears.  

I lay in the cool water, protesting but unable to rise up, refusing to believe that I could live without feeling the rapture of that wild dance again. I kept calling to the Crone to put the shoes back on – for I was certain that if given another chance to wear them, I could control myself but alas, she made her slow unsteady way back to the cave. I squeezed my eyes shut as the tears fell. I wept and howled and raged a long time. I railed against my fate until there were no more tears to cry and I was exhausted.

After a time the pain and unfamiliarity lessened somewhat and I opened my eyes. Mists of images of my children and family, my friends, my career, education, and books, arose from the water and I watched these images play before my red rimmed eyes. I saw myself barefoot as I had been before being seduced to don those perilous, man-made red shoes. I saw myself as I a truly am: beautiful,  strong, independent, loving and spiritual. Then at once it seemed, the pain receded and all I felt was a profound relief. I was free. I was me again. I breathed a deep, contented sigh and was restored to peace. I lifted my legs up out of the water and found that the deadly red shoes were gone and my feet had been restored, unscarred and as strong and whole and able to take me on my destiny as ever.

I stood naked and dripping strong and real, and walked barefoot back to my path.

 

 The red shoe legend is symbolic of any behavior that leads us from our true selves and forces us to dance wildly and uncontrollably away from our path. The red shoes are obsession, fantasies disguised as reality, addiction, eating disorders… The only way to rid ourselves of these deadly dances is to cut off the shoes completely and all at once. It is painful. That’s why addiction and codependency are so horrible and terrifying. We lose ourselves to the dance that at first feels so good but quickly spirals out of control. We must learn to walk barefoot again. 

Sometimes I miss the red shoes – I miss the dancing as it was when I first put the shoes on. But I know they aren’t for me and that I need to steer clear of the seduction of sinister cobblers disguised as old friends.

Do I regret my time in the red shoes? Yes, of course, but only insomuch that I will never have that lost, precious time back: time that I wasted on something ugly and false. I console myself  by chalking it up to a life experience that taught me much. I learned that to lose one’s self is the greatest sin, if indeed sin exists.

I am content now most times to walk. Walk my own path and dance barefoot to the music of my soul.

I would remiss in not expressing my deep, deep appreciation to Katie who introduced me and placed me in the care of La loba, The Wolf Woman; Tracy and Jenifer, for being vital in my return to my barefoot state. I love you and value you more than I can ever say or show.  It’s a rare blessing for a woman to have such a circle of friends.