Constipated May, Haunted June

It feels like walking through water.... then through jelly.... then through honey. Then it feels like one stops and cannot move, just catch the things that are hurling through the end of semester towards one's head. SAC corrections, lesson preparations, student teacher, VCAA assessment training, revision Seminars, practice exams, more correction, AEU leadership training. The sense of reality very quickly travels from "yes, amazing work, of course I'm on top of it" to "aaaaaaaarrrgh!!!, leave me alone!!!"

Overwhelmed? Slightly. Wanting to escape? Absolutely!! Feeling pressure to be the reliable sensible looking after fur children co-parent? Hmmmmm

Sir has been slowing exposing and peeling back the layers of her onion heart. The smell is sharp and tears prick easily onto her cheeks. Knifework is dangerous... mother always said so. Except that "don't lick the knife!'' always made Sir really want to lick that sharp edge and feel the numb edges around a sharp cut.

Before the start of this journey, Sir thought that being able to cut out one's heart and look at it in the kitchen table would be good enough, a good solution to a little problem. Easy enough to see where the black holes were, where the fatty tissue could be scraped, where the silly putty should be applied. Now, Sir realises that therapy changes things.

When one is aware of self, aware of pain and no longer looking through alcohol goggles, things hurt more or less, relatively.

However, the heart that has been cut out of the body for minute examination and repair suddenly seems both irreparable and unbearably beautiful. The hole where Sir's heart was starts to ache as she looks at the journey described, the pathways from the past, the parallel tracks of reality that Sir has been existing in and travelling on. The fragments of self that trauma created have grown and survived in this bleak barren landscape of self hatred and loathing. My god! How is it that such a place exists, let alone allows growth in Sir's psyche?

So. What to do with the heart?

Not walking, floating.

This is my favourite time of the week. Sunday evening.

The sun is just setting. The smell of roast weaves its way around the soft sounds of sleeping wife and snoring felines. Ah how things have changed.

We made it. Here to this home that is nothing like the last. Time can be spent here in many ways... but most importantly it can be spent in the ways of the living. Occupied by moments of hearts of pulsing and life affirming creativity. It is peaceful here. Because we make it this way. Our interactions and thoughts are positive and loving. The direction of our love and affirmation in toward the future. Our movement is bound forward together but not too tightly.

Sir has found the strength to unclasp her hands. So fearfully clutching the things that defined her being, so desperately being afraid. Letting go of the fear of being unworthy and unloved has been like turning on an electric lamp in a candle lit room. Suddenly all is so clear and defined.... including the shadows and the dark places.

But more importantly, the light has shown the good things. The way to stand alone but know one is not alone. The ability to walk in the parallel pathways of healing and loving. That the doors made of pain can be opened those dusty dark rooms aired... movement and settling where before there has been only tight constriction.

Relief. Comfort. Sleep. Love.