The mess was mine.
The mess was close. The mess came
in an instant. In an unexpected way the
water broke all around me, I could not make it stop. It ran until it was done of its own
accord. Like the sobs of a wounded soul,
there was no stopping until the exhaustion was pervasive. The work of keeping it all together and
contained was captured in the spring, and had been released. The work had been hidden from the
unsuspecting, the uninterested and, myself as well. I had not taken the account of the labor
needed to hold it all in place. To keep
the plates spinning and balls juggling and the tension “just so”.
We are never ready.
Ever. If we had been ready we
would have been working on it long before this.
It is always from an angle we didn’t suspect, and past the shields that
we though would protect, it comes.
“Arrows from a friend, who can withstand?” is one lament in the Psalms,
and so it is true. At times they are a
friend not yet made, but will be so, soon.
At times they are close friends, but this wound is different. This wound heals slowly, and with a
significant alteration to what had been the course you expected.
You may learn to smile again, and perhaps soon, but not deeply. Not yet. The mess will perhaps have been long forgotten even, but still it is there in the ready for a cue to cause the memory to bring it back. What then? Will it be freedom that you have, or simply the sorrow. Some wounds heal differently than before. You may not have the bruises anymore, but the apprehension, and the lack of trust are still real. PTSD is not simply confined to the war zones. To be traumatized for years by a parent or spouse or child is as real as the sounds and smells of battle. A battle of a different sort, and duration.
It happens in a moment.
When one, a stranger or long-lost friend, looks deeply into the window
of our soul and doesn’t look away. We
know we are known. So do they. This time
it is different. Calling on the depth of
their resonance, to vibrate the chords that they know are waiting for it, the
tension breaks and the tears flow. I would say “finally”, but that implies
relief and that is not yet. Now it is
surprise, the feeling of being trapped and “found out” and not able to hide or
make excuses. This comes first. Relief comes when you know they have worked
through the stories of their own and will be gently strong as you speak that
which has not been spoken of for a long time.
That they will let you tell the tale patiently but will resist avoidance
and deflection. This is what comes of
the telling of your tale. That one day
you will give that which you have. To
one that needs it, in a moment of their own mess. You will give the freedom that you know.
Were it otherwise, to be defensive and reserved, you would not be capable of the trust needed to tell of their story deep inside. The giver of freedom will be given trust in return. The giver of control and defense will be given short answers and shallow stories. If you are looking for a litmus test, this is it. Perhaps the teller of the tale is not ready, or rather that you are not free. It could be that you simply would need to learn how to ask better questions. The default position is to tell, to one that is ready to listen. If you are free, and have time, they will tell you.
So, now what? If all
that you have are young children that will talk to you, let them talk. If your
tale is that of a specific version, seek out those in that group for listening;
Veterans, suicide prevention, Medical groups like Alzheimer or cancer, SIDS and
more. There is a group that needs your
talent to listen, and perhaps for you to speak to. Go then.
In freedom and in power to help those that need a hand. They may need to sop up the mess first, so be
ready to get messy. They will smile with their eyes when you have done it well.