Bridges for Surviving

For the past five weeks, I’ve been posting stories of my childhood that carried with them subconscious messages that affected much of my life. Fortunately, as an adult, I’ve sought professional counseling.

         This has provided me with the opportunity to recall these events in my life, come to grips with them, forgive all of us who were involved, recognize the patterns of thought that evolved from these events, and decide which of these patterns I wanted to embrace and which I wanted to abandon. This work continues as I discover new ways these thoughts impact my aging life.

         In an earlier posting I said that today I’d begin sharing some humorous stories with you. However, I’ve decided that I need a bridge between those life-changing incidents already shared and the amusing tales that this blog will highlight throughout March and possibly early April. After that, I hope to return to convent postings.

         In your comments, some of you praised me as a survivor. So the bridge to connect the February postings with the March ones is about what helped me survive: Arthur, my mother, a reoccurring daydream in which I took refuge, and blue.

         Arthur is my imaginary friend from kindergarten. He remained visible to me for many years and I still, at times, feel his presence. Click here for the posting in which I introduced him to you.

         During my grade school years, after I got off the bus each afternoon, greeted mom, and had a snack, I often hiked down to the creek. It was about fifteen feet wide, and its water ran swiftly, emptying into the Missouri River. I’d sit on a large slab of rock with a boulder behind me.

         Arthur would sit next to me and often I’d rest my head against his tawny sides. He is a gentle lion whose eyes are deep wells of compassion and understanding. While I was never able to tell any adult about the molestation happening in my life, I could share everything with Arthur. Again and again he assured me that I was a good little girl.

         During those years, I shared my school day with Mom. She’d help put into perspective the childish spats between my playmates and me on the playground. We’d discuss what I was learning. She’d send me to the World Books to find out more and would get excited with me as I learned new things. She’d tell me about books she was reading. Always, she made me feel important. Cherished.

         The third bridge to sanity was a daydream. Whenever Dad came home drunk and he and Mom quarreled, I’d go into my bedroom and lie on the bed. There was no door into my bedroom, just a curtain hanging within the doorframe, so I could still hear the arguing, but I didn’t have to watch my father swaying or my mother’s face redden.

         During that time, I’d retreat into my own mind and lie, not on a bed, but on a hillside that sloped down into a deep, green valley through which a stream flowed, meandering to the light-danced sea beyond the hillside.
         I’d lie on my back against the fragrant grass and the welcoming loam and look up through the spreading branches of a blossoming apple tree. Cloud wisps accented the blue sky; birds perched on the branches; butterflies landed on my fingers.

         The sounds of that hillside—birds, their heads cocked, singing about the wheat; the far sea splashing on the shore; the soughing wind wending its way through the valley—comforted me. I was a long way from the troubles of home. Safe. Secure.

         Always I could escape to that hillside. To that green valley. To that turquoise sea.

         Those three—Arthur, Mom, and Daydream—helped me survive. I had survived asthma as I child and so I knew about breathing and distracting myself. I also had a fourth bridge to peace—blue. Click here for how that color helped me survive.

         Next week—laughter!

Photo of apple blossoms by Dan from freedigitalphotos.net; photo of lone tree by Archipoch from freedigitalphotos.net; other photos from Wikipedia.