“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”

Neil Gaiman,

Oh! The Feels And not the good ones. I have become so, crowded within myself. I feel like a can of shook soda. A jumbled basket of yarn. Where is my release? When do I start to unravel them? If I envision this as a giant mess of a puzzle, which piece of the puzzle do I pick up and ponder over? Write about. Toss into the garbage can? Wedge into place (whether it fits or not) Flick across the room into a dusty, and dark corner, yelling loudly “stay there!”

I do not even like puzzles. Their would be ‘puzzle’ pieces flying everywhere.

Perhaps this would be easier, if I picture myself dumping a heap of ‘clothes’ into a tiny room. Shall I go through every ‘item’ and hold it closely to my chest, and ask myself “does it spark joy?” if not, toss it into the deep, and move on.

Like it was that easy….

I feel a part of me slump into a chair and heave a great sigh. And the other half wants to kick my own ass. Perhaps I pick up just one piece of this ‘puzzle’ and do not ask it anything. Do not shove it into place. But, instead say “Okay, where do you want to take me?”

Hmmm…suddenly it feels like a great adventure. And there is only one place to go from here, and that is….UP.

At least I think so. If the journey is taking me, I guess I do not state where. I just, GO.

And I FEEL the journey wants to lead me to my heart, and it IS going to be difficult. First impulse is to dig my heels in. But turning Donkey is not going to help the journey. If I want healing, and I do, I must GO.

First, I can see, a few boxes are in the way. An old lamp, a stack of books, roller skates (because I am that old) a hand full of mismatched socks, etc etc…the usual kind of stuff that collects dust in the basement. Or the attic. Under the stairs. Wherever you go to shove stuff away and swear to yourself you will get back to.

I believe, in our hearts, we are all hoarders. Not of material things, but of grudges, and bitterness, of uncareful words and of uncareful people. Bad deeds done and bad deeds done to us. And when it gets too much, and the feels are crippling. We lock up shop. Board the doors. And pile things in the way until we do not even know where the path is anymore. And that is where I am at now, looking for the path.

And I really made sure this door was not going to be easy to find. It’s a technical marvel really. I am kind of impressed. But it is not fair to anyone else, to find their way, to clear the path. To sit back and let them ponder the disaster that it really is. Doubt they would be impressed at all…

So, I will start. The bar is over there, grab whatever you want. Here is a comfy seat. You can stay, or you can go but, I would much rather have you stay.

There is much work to do, things to share. I cannot say it will be in order, the sharing. I will just grab a box and open it up. That is the adventure after all, isn’t it? And perhaps you will share too, I will love that.

So, lets see. *grabs a box, carefully lifts a bent wing to peer inside* Oh goodness. *sighs* must I? I guess I must, It is about the adventure.  Tries to write with no sarcasm in that italic font, but fails.

My 18 year marriage to a Narcistic, rage a-holic. Hey, words from his counselor not me. Though I do believe, I tagged him that after the many psychiatric books I had to read, in order to understand him. In order to survive.

You know, lets set this box aside, it is late. And if this is the chosen box that I must delve through and clean out, I would much rather start on a fresh page. But thanks for stopping by, it means a lot….

-Hummingbird