Roses, Music and Musings

This article is the continuation of the first article of my blog. My introduction letter to you ended up being one fat, juicy article that I decided to split into four parts (yes, your girl was getting a bit overexcited !).

I’m here to discuss time, and dreams. Again. (Trauma is also making its appearance, this time).

Although I found her novel ‘Ruby’ incredibly difficult to read ( I couldn’t finish the book, after trying for months…I’m too much of a softie for this novel ! ), I was touched by Cynthia Bond’s quote at the end of her book: “[…] many beautiful books and poems and essays are lost to stirring oatmeal and trying to get the mystery stain out of a child’s shirt. They can also be lost to working over forty hours a week, parent or not, and coming home too tired to raise one’s hand to lift the remote, much less to perch on a chair, fingers poised to write” (Bond, 2014).

Ah. Touched right into my soul! 

This right here pushed me to reflect a bit more about some of the things that can stand between one human being and their dreams. After weeding out all the things that seem to limit the journey towards my true self and my dreams, I zoomed in on time.

Time. ..The amount that I have left is something I cherish and that I intend not to waste, because I am now realising that the way I intend to use it is intimately tied to the realisation or not, of my dreams. I am not saying that this is the only thing standing between me and my dreams. I am also not trying to monitor and control every second of life, nor trying to become a time-management freak. I want to be more careful. More intentional. More in alignment with who I truly am.

Unfortunately, a few things messed up my vision and my use of time through the years.

My first traumatic experience happened when I was still a child. Five years old. Still at the dawn of life. The age at which memories start to consolidate and remain anchored in our brain for the long term, and when autobiographical memories start to stabilise. This first experience left me with a shattered vision of what childhood and safety are supposed to be. It destroyed my understanding of physical and emotional safety, and it distorted the lines between familiarity and danger. 

I did not really have the time or the opportuniy to question and to wonder why my vision of the world was now so blurry and fragmented, because another traumatic event happened during the prologue of my teenage years.

It was just the start of a nightmarish loop, and more dysfunction meddled into my life before I even reached adulthood.

It took me years to make sense of what happened to me as a child. To even put words together to describe it. 

It took me more years, after that, to try to cope and to overcome the accumulated trauma. 

Another layer of years was spent trying to channel my anger, to ask questions, to fight for justice (the justice system had let me down !) and to demand accountability. 

More years served to recover from the mistakes I’ve made while I was living in the dark, with no guidance or support, with fear and hopelessness as faithful companions and a heavy chip on the shoulder. 

A few other years were devoted to deconstructing the dysfunction, shedding the burden that wasn’t mine to carry, unlearning unhealthy patterns, and rebuilding myself. Slowly. Most times gently, sometimes, more harshly.

It was not all gloomy. I had moments of joy, rainbows, and sunny spells. Thankfully, I met many, many beautiful souls who helped along the way. I learnt to be resilient, I deep-dived and explored some corners of myself, I readjusted my spirituality and made some wonderful things happen for me with faith, optimism, realignment and the support of a loving community. Sometimes this community was 3 friends, at times it was my family, other times it was a full team of colleagues.

The chapter I’m writing right now is ‘learning to be me again’. And trusting the process. Sometimes, I chuckle gently at the thought that, doing this after years of grief and loss, is like learning to walk for the first time, and I see myself as the cheerful, round-faced toddler I used to be. The happy, joyful child I was. I have compassion for myself now. I’m just learning to live again.

While I’m looking at my account book, I can clearly see how trauma devoured many years of my life. It is chronophage and debilitating. It demanded so much of my time, energy, and attention … I cannot play with the time I have left now. I cherish every day I spend with a more regulated nervous system, every hour that I spend in good health, every minute that I spend experiencing true peace and tranquility.

With the time that is given to me, how can I ensure I live the life I want without compromising the peace I am currently experiencing? How can I make it work with the resources that I have, my personal situation, and the environment I live in? What is important for me at this stage of my life? Do I feel complete? What do I want to use my life for?

What were your dreams before trauma blurred it all and cast a thick fog over your heart, your soul, and your mind? 

What lights up your soul?

In my case, I always knew some of the answers. Some are deeply personal … might share later… but two of them I can share now.

Music and Writing. 

These two forms of art have always been a driving force for me. I still struggle to put into words the otherworldly moment when music first spoke to my soul, and when the pages of a book first enchanted my mind.

There was nothing clearer, but I wasn’t sure of the direction to take. More importantly, I was SCARED !

That’s when Toni Morrison entered and rocked my life…

Stay tuned for Part 3…