Photo by Magnus Polla, Fjärås,Sweden copyright2023
There are few people who make us feel special, something most humans crave at some point in their lives. One expects parents to find us special, extraordinarily so yet sometimes the ones who are most likely to believe in you simply don’t. The why’s are a mixed bag of variables so it’s not an easy script to sum up; ROCK is the strongest, deepest part of LittleMe, the one who shakes me out of the darkness and sets me straight, well at least gives me some sort of hope in a really shoddy world at times. MiddleMe is trying desperately to accept GettingOldMe and time seems to be in fast forward. As most of my readers know, ROCK and MiddleMe have spent so much time trying to heal LittleMe and just when there is this triumphant breakthrough, she’s triggered and falls down into her dank, silent cave. Being nothing special is alright I suppose as I am just a stone, a discarded carved art project left in the woods who was rescued by a curious boy. He grew up and married twice and I sat at his mother’s country house for years without much notice. Then, there was something about my face, my expression rather, that spoke to my human’s second wife so deeply that she brought me to my year round, hopefully lifelong home. She took photos of me, created my persona and put me in this blog. She made me her hero and I am like, I hate to say this, a rock star! Haha. We have to laugh about my meaningfulness. Truth be known, she is the strong one, pulling herself up over and over, not me. I want to give her credit because she is special, even though the people she loved most before her child and husband didn’t make her feel that way. Her new approach is cognitive therapy, soft yoga and pouring on the love to those who have brought her the gift of loyalty. In the big scheme of things she knows she is nothing special, but I sure think she ought to be to a whole lot of not so nice people. GettingOldMe (GOM for making things easier on arthritic fingers) is still dragging LittleMe around like that box of junk that sits for ages in the back of your car and never makes it to the recycling station or dump. MiddleMe is hurting as she watches her own young adult child struggle, and is starting to give up on should be wonderful, meaningful, relationships and is just learning to accept them as tragedies of her life, shake loose, let ’em fall. They should have seen her special, praised and carried her in their spirits always, but they dropped her. She just was toonothing special.
Soon he would say goodbye, doubtful his first taste of love would wait; boarding on the longship would begin at sunrise after two more night falls. He was not at ease nor feeling dutiful to set sail, his rough, calloused hands had been assigned to row, his grey eyes already set on defeat. In the chilly night he and his lover kept warm under a sheath of tanned hide; a warm fire encircled with stones lit up their faces. His lover was cold, she had been sweating earlier and she shared with him that perhaps she was carrying his baby. It had been two moons since her last cleansing. He held her close and rubbed her hands in his own. All night he stayed up, keeping the fire crackling and he called for a wise woman to look at his betrothed. He was given garlic for his neck and a tonic that tasted bitter as nettles to sip. He must prepare to board the longship and not fall ill. The woman wiped carefully with cool cloths the forehead and the nape of his lady’s neck and said she should be moved to the women’s tent so he too might rest. He was reluctant yet never questioned this miracle of her gifts from the God’s and believed in the sunrise of his departure his love would encircle him with the other strong women and sing a prayer to the heavens. At last he fell asleep and the fire dwindled. He was a large man, of long height with a woolly red beard; for years he had been called to help others lift heavy logs, roll stones and fell trees for boat building. His stomach grumbled and his dreams brought him no peace. His eyes closed, his mouth agape, a gurgling snore erupted. Deep within his dream state he saw his own mother, her pale white face, her eyes weary yet loving; she spoke. “Son of Gudrun, son of Ove, lift your spirit up to see. It’s been eighteen moons since we saw you. Your sister Ulla is here, too. Their faces were like a portrait in beautiful pastel inks. The heavens were soft as the first spring day when the sight of white and purple forest flowers burst through the edges of the footpath, gay as the laughter of friends when the sun was long in the sky, days were easier, their heart’s lightened by the dark winter’s end. Time for merriment and the smell of baking bread, the homecoming of the longship, strong fermented ales and hearty stews and loaves of bread with berries he could taste so sweet; stirred he woke with a gasp. One sunrise had come. He stood and walked to the women’s healing tent and the flaps were sewn shut with thick leather. “Naaaaay”, he screamed and he ran to the morning fire keepers boiling coffee and sharing porridge. Breathless, he asked if his lady was in the tent still. Blue eyes looked at one another and down. He knew the answer. He kicked the first iron pot and it swung from it’s iron chains molted flawlessly by the black smith and his apprentice. Hot scalding water splashed and the men jumped back. An old man who laid on sheep skin by the fire called for him to sit by him. His heart rapid, his cheeks red with rage, he succumbed to his elder. ” What can you say to comfort me?” The man, thin and weak voiced motioned for the giant, frightened man to sit beside him. “Are you the son of Gudrun and the sister of Ulla?” The old man already knew but asked even so. “Ya, I am.” Do you think, son of Ove that your father created such acts of arrogance when the God’s called his wife and daughter up?” Silence. “What name did they leave you?” “I am Per Ove’s son. “Well Per Ovesson do you dare to guess the will of the heavens? Are you in fear of the sea and hunger? Are you a messenger or do you serve?” ” I serve.” The so very big man, Per, son of Gudrun and Ove, brother of Ulla wept. The elderly man handed Per a smooth stone to rub and called for porridge. The big man, the thin elder and the fire keepers stood close. One by one they placed a hand on his shoulder and walked on. Night fell again and he laid by his fire alone sipping the bitter nettle tea. He did not want to dream and the silence soothed him. It had been nine cut logs when a woman he’d never seen came to stand before him. “You may see your lady now”. His lips felt numb, his eyes ashamed and he said, “Why do you want me to feel more pain?” The woman outstretched her hand and he stood. When they came closer to the tent the woman lifted the flap and there lay a clump of deep red flesh upon his lover’s abdomen. He moved closer and felt confused. Take the flesh and all of it’s blood and bury it deep in the forest. His lady did not breathe and small stones were on each eye. He did as told by the healer. Without sleep and it being soon the second sunrise he fought to keep focused on his task. Big tears from a big man with the heart of a child fell steadily down his face. When he returned he went to his fire to sleep and there sat the woman again with a white bundle of heavy fur. She stood and handed him a baby. “How can this be? My lady only missed two moons.” The woman smiled and said, “the God’s were good” and asked him to bestow a name before he sat sail. In a state of both sorrow and beauty he said, ” this is the son of Per, the son of Lea. He shall be blessed with the name of Liam.” The woman promised him the babe would be well fed and when he returned the baby would be his comfort. Per kissed his son’s forehead and slept with him in his arms until sunrise. The healers had prepared Lea’s body to be sent to sea where she would be taken up to the God’s quickly. He held one side of his love’s canvas and birch sewn raft. He did not weep for she had left him reason to believe that more would come to be good. The women sang as the longship prepared to launch. The sky was yellow and afire with sunrise. The horns blew and he pulled in unison with his mates. By sunset they placed Lea on her raft and she floated away from the boat, away from the father of Liam, the son of Ove, the son of Gudrun and the brother of Ulla. In the night the high waves plunged over the stern and wailed upon the starboard, the longship albeit strong rocked with brutal fervour. Per was the lead, each pull he thought of Liam, each horn he heard his mother calling. The God’s were trying his strength in a way he never had experienced, he was not only strong in his body now but also in his soul. The storm settled and he was sent to rest. A cool wind soothed his sweaty bruised hands and his lips cracked from the salty winds from the North Sea leaked sweet bits of blood. His thirst was mighty and he was given water with herbs to keep him quiet. His cough came on fast, deep and he heard other’s coughing, too. He spat green, thick phlegm into the sea. He hung his head over, the winds cooling his dizzying state. The head of the ship was also spewing a sickness from his body over board. Few men could guide the longship, and one by one they fell, coughing, wailing in pain, and now hope had no place for them. Another night would come, a morning with many deaths and each one was set free to float amongst the creatures that both fed on them and nourished their loved ones. Per Ovesson would be the last man to go. He ensured all were met by the God’s who knew better than he the true meaning. He would fall into a deep, long sleep, he would dream of Lea, mother of Liam and he would die proud as his father had bravely done before him. He drifted off further to sea and the sky above would open it’s arms and his soul would rise up, up, up into the arms of Ulla.
Youth, black and white, yes or no, speak or silence I hold my breath for peace, for calm, for all that is right Goodness once defined by order, authority, defined, underlined A shift of consciousness bows to the moment, the breath defines Who we are, who we were, where we are going Goodness is a portrait unfinished, a process unleashed A place where the divine encounters the ordinary, forgiveness We fall at the feet of our own making, our deeds portray shame In the darkness we long for what we could have been We are alone in our fear,truth is coveted Goodness does not hesitate nor hinder For we, the unfinished, the raw form, the model in making Suffer as we witness grief, despair, incomplete masks Why seek to better ourselves when around us a dark shadow beckons? Goodness is a portrait unfinished, a process unleashed A place where the divine encounters the ordinary, forgiveness We fall, we seek, we bow, we resonate; are we capable? The clock hand moves forward, no change is gained A decade passes, we remain.
One thing ROCK, Lm and Mm, (Middle Me), agree on is there shall be no frivolity when we speak our truths.
No fancy decor as we all know truth is very black and white. It is or it is not. It isn’t wrapped in pretty paper and often leads to complete hell.
Lm looks up to Mm in awe. How did we get this far, this strong, and survive? ROCK. We came from a history of strong women on mother’s side. Our family name was Steele. Our heart’s were soft but our character was pure, selfless and like in the delightful film, Lilo and Stitch, “Ohana”, means family; nobody is left behind.
Being strong means letting go. Releasing our need to validate our truths, offing the redundant longing for acknowledgement from those we dream of standing up for us is a must do. Honestly,those who hurt us do not care if it means damaging themselves. Siblings, ugh. To stay in today’s reality show one must, “stay out of the ugly”, less the reality show be cancelled. Truth jeopardizes who “they”, “we”, “us”, are collectively; breaches what is needed in regards to family and most are too weak to stand up for the black sheep who has been kicked to the gutter. All on the table, hands up, a good liar is always preferred when the good go rogue.
How far can one run before all that one is trying to forget, divert, and escape comes back to where we have fled? Is this the middle of our lives where we draw a truce breathlessly, stop bargaining with our pasts and face the incongruities of our deepest emotions? Or do some of us weasel around our truer selves, aborting our most harmful and hurtful memories?
I don’t know that everyone is as introspective and determined as I to make sense of my losses and embrace my gains. Many I know continue the grand avoidance by burying themselves in newness or clinging to safe behaviours which cause them deep regret. Newness, as in changing jobs, locales, or partners. Some embrace a new religion or avert their deepest threats by falling into the huge word, and world of “addictions.”
To fully grasp ROCK’s significance, is to understand that most all of us have an inner strength, a will, one could say to push on, to overcome adversities and pursue, albeit often ignorantly, a better place for ourselves. Not all of us have the skills, in fact, most of us do not. We learn the tricks along the way, bumping into walls, heading down one-way streets that end in catastrophe and facing the unexpected dips in the road with surprise. ROCK knows that no one has control over anything other than their miniscule tasks that give them the illusion of control. Unloading the dishwasher, vacuuming, and tidying up one’s surroundings gives some people a sense of control. True adhesiveness, however, doesn’t exist. Life will get messy again and again and there is not a damn thing we can do about it but examine who we are, accept our temporary gift of living on this planet and make choices that will break our hearts, or others, lose loved ones and gain loved ones, discover our passions and cling to them, for at the end of the day it will not matter how well you ironed that table cloth, only who sat around the table with you and enjoyed your company.
LittleMe is the part many of us hide away, live with in a small corner of our memories and try to avoid. There are amazingly many whose LittleMe is quite satisfied. They were adored, cared for and have the childhood the rest of us can only dream of; we can’t undo what is done, yet we can undo how we let what was done THEN affect our NOW.
Just when I think ROCK has given all the power to LittleMe and my NOW self can live in contentment, even joyfully, there will be a wee part, still unhealed that can be triggered and the roof I have built with confidence caves in. There’s more to address with all of me and with ROCK.
For readers who have been following our journey from October 2021 perhaps you can see growth, we can, but the self-doubt is very present and MiddleMe must address some more hurts that broke her carefree ways, her giving heart and the unkindness, unfairness the world delves out and learn to shake the fear she still clamours to quell within.
I hope you stay with us on the journey as LittleMe, MiddleMe and ROCK cut through the untrodden jungle within.
Photo by u0410u043du0430u0441u0442u0430u0441u0438u044f u0411u044bu043au043eu0432u0430 on Pexels.com
Upon a mattress of memories, covered in a blanket of words
The ceiling is removed, my mind wanders like driftwood
Washing up on the pebble coated shore
Sun hidden, yet it will shine again
Free now, with no constraints upon me
Except for those I have created myself
My eyes watch as clouds shift
Shadows of LittleMe linger yet I am not hindered
Letting go of you was the best part of me
Not caring, not wondering, no second thought remains
Rock pulled me through the stench of unrequieted suffering
Like the fires of hell, each piece of me was burned
As a steamy iron flattens out the wrinkles
Patience led to a better version of now
No longer am I tied to you
Blood bares no meaning
Selfless, I once gave you all of my dreams
My visions are only mine now
Each hour a page is turned
The further I delve into my gentleness
My heart without borders sighs
I soar above you
I always have
What makes a woman strong is not the good days
Untethered, we can face our needs
Without roses
Without holding another's hand
I hold my own
Courage to speak the words
That create our story
Defies dysfunction
Trees begin as saplings, just like me
Each branch stretches out with a bit of my growth
Each leaf is new, renewed, then falls
Like the end of summer
A bit of old me is left
An autumnal breeze is my new pulse
Rock does not sway like unbridled emotions
Together we finished another season of me
Triumphantly without your curse
LittleMe curls around her newness
Clouds will always move
As I move
Further and further away from you
I was not born brave; sorrow made me courageous
I am proud that I found peace with my anger
One by one the leaves fall away
Taking you with them
Steadfast I remain
For I am still beautiful in my nakedness
What you gave me was the feeling of being important, of mattering, of being irreplacable,capable and loved. What you stole from me was everything I clung to and it has taken me years to see, to feel, to love and forgive myself. I am the pearl, the rare gem and you are no longer in charge of my value. I am so much more than you ever deserved. I am genuine, not some nock off rolex from the side alley in the city. I am no longer just LittleMe, I am ROCK solid. I am as gentle as the still lake on a fall morning, I am noone who needs to hide my heart or be afraid anymore. The stone is more than a shield, it is a tool, one that helped me grow away from you and into me. I am sorry for who you lost, for I was always the only TRUTH you had known. I release you and I can laugh again. You were not my hero afterall. I am my hero.
Eyes Squint as the sun rolls over the hills pulling Lm up and out of her lengthy hibernation.
There is a grace around her,calmness is rewarded with a toast of familiar aromas between her and Rock. He has stood silent, never pushing her to write or paint for he knows she always will find her bearings after all these years as one. One woman, wound in threads of her past, always mending her wounds, sometimes unravelling and redoing her old patterns. She rips at the stitching she has worked so diligently on and then regrets her lack of believing in her self.
Rock is not one to heal, he simply listens to her heartbeat, her dreams, and guards her memories with pride. He loves his protective role, yet desperatly longs for Lm to embrace him and allow their codependency to gain an impenetrable force of a love for life beyond the silences lingering between them.
Lm has indeed been writing on the walls in her stairwell, deeply hidden in her darkness she creates prose and poetry that brings heavy tears to those with a true understanding of the life she has lived, survivied and continues to embrace.
Rock pulls open a drawer where some of her writng is growing stale, longing to be shared with the world. "Go on" he insists, "Put it out there!" Lm feeling somewhat nervous takes the words she has written and takes to the keyboard of her laptop.
Poem?Prose? Lm sees no reason to give her words a title and let's it spill into print.
Like turmeric, pomegranate,and cumin, we fill the room with exotic spice.
Pungent scents of our newness exhale around our discovery, circling like a dancing nymph.
Ochre and cinnamon, brassy, hot, flesh soothed only by the midnight air.
Dainty, cool, silver falls upon our sturdy moon, a flash of our future, our beginnings. Desert orange, a flush of your cheeks.
An odd mixture of clay and clover, of cabbage and okra, we long to be the same.
We grope for the chance to blend.
We are an experiment, unlikely ingredients combined by chance.
Rock can't applaud but is pleased. His stoic face never gives way to emotion.
Dissociative still, yet hope will always be on each mornings horizon.
In her own light she was conceived again and again as she grew into her truest self, following her own oath and quest to live life in tune with her deepest heart. She began with no knowledge of who she was or who her mother was despite living together for sixteen years. She knew only that to survive she had to follow the pull through a very twisted and sometimes treacherous journey.
Love is often hidden in the crevasses of the wounded ones, felt, yet not expressed in a manner that a girl or child can decipher. This girl was LittleMe, Lm to her readers, and while facing the rebirth of her own sweet creation, she tore unintentionally yet necessitous the perinium of her mother’s flesh that bore her time after time.
The blood shed, the young woman’s cries reverberated in her dreams; she knew instictively that her beginnings were frightening for her young, lonely mother and that parenting was thrust upon her with reluctance at a time when few could choose to pull the helm in their own direction. Her mother had indeed been married but she knew her choices were complex.
Although a student on scholorships at a good college in the southern USA, her husband was the one who stole from her the sense of ownerhship of her being and he put himself first, not just in their relationship but in all life matters from an early age and forward. It would not take long for him to play cat and mouse, yes and no, hot and cold leaving her with blatant instability. His actions led her to take me and carry our lives in her own hands. This was both an undeniably brave and challenging decision and a burden that would weave in and around our relationship for years to come. Although she had parents they were not suited for her to run home to; daily life was a struggle to keep us sheltered, with food, clothes, and with money to use for her first old car’s gasoline. Often it was two dollars worth at a time to get to work. The Green Hornet was a beauty bought for much less than it’s value from a coworker whose father had died. She got me to my babysitter’s and herself to her two jobs without help from the one who I called “Daddy”. He would claim to others how much he helped us, lie and make her feel foolish and belittled and there came a time when I would grow into a fierce yet wobbly doe and would see him for all he was sincerely not. His lies were like candy or chips you know you should not be indulging in yet you continue because they taste so decadent and good in a detrimental way. Too many consumed make one sick but the craving remains even so. He was my addiction.
I never truly let go of either of them in my deepest heart however my brain knew what was best for me and pushed them away, down, down, down and put their imprints that hurt Lm into small boxes and locked them with keys I can not use. Only Rock has the key now and LittleMe stands disgruntled on the bottom step of her dank stairwell always wanting more. She will always wish for things to change, to be seen and heard and believed. She will always want love and truth in it’s highest form. Lm continues to forgive clinging to hope with a desperation which deturs her from fully healing. Rock doesn’t think she will ever let go for she, the Black Sheep, the kindest and most endearing of all had her pain wrapped up in a paper bag and set out to seek acceptance fully believing she would find all the answers and eventually all the keys to fill the holes in her heart out in this world somewhere with divine light. Rock patiently stands beside her as once again her heart is aching with new pain invoked by the mother of Lm, the grandmother of Lm’s struggling only child has broke her trust again.
Lm’s young adult has been suffering after coming out of the proverbial closet as transgender. Throughout years of required investigations in the Swedish system, the back log of others waiting after the coronavirus choked socialized medicine to a mere drip of dysfunction. Doctor after doctor, endocriniologist, psychiatrists, depression, dysphoria and self loathing became a never ending roller coaster ride in an abandoned amusement park for her daughter and for Lm. Seeing her own child hurt repeatedly has contained all of Lm’s emotions regarding her own deepest self so she may be available and strong for her daughter.
The circle of love and pain begins to churn. Nurturing yet admittedly not knowing the answers has brought Lm to a stand off with her own mother visiting for six weeks from the southern USA. The same area were drag queens are prohibited, the same south where the bill was passed that genitalia must be checked before entering toilets in public places, the same south and country where carrying guns to school instead of sneaking in bubblegum is more common.
Lm’s daughter is Black and Cuban, adopted from birth, her fragility and social anxiety is hightened as the world she experiences judges her everyday because she is not white and priviledged. The world is full of haters. Lm’s heart is full of love and it grows bigger making room for all of the LGBTQ+ community, wanting to hold them all in her shadow, protect them from harm and discrimination.
The mother that never knew Lm truly and with whom she still forgives daily has now crossed a line that has caused profound pain for her beloved daughter. While out for an appointment, Lm’s mother and her daughter were left home together. Lm had made it clear before her mother visited that she had to follow the rules of her household, not push her bounderies or she could not visit. Despite jumping through hoops, rolling over and fetching for her mother for eighteen days she felt it would be okay to leave the house to do errands. Then a text message came from her daughter whom I will refer to from now forward as “B” for Blessing arrived. Lm had just sat down in a café and ordered a glass of white wine when B’s text pinged on her phone. Expecting the usual, “Mom can you pick me up some chips?”, Lm reads that her Meanmom has resurfaced and was verbally inappropriate with B. Meanmom went to her granddaughter’s room twice uninvited and told her that she was put on this planet by God for a reason. Okay, she can think that. Then she did her double back flip of harsh whiplash and used her tongue put in her mouth by her God to proceed to say B was a disappointment to her, to us all and that she would wind up on the streets and was worthless. Rock stepped in and double checked all drawers to ensure the memories of Lm’s shitty childhood full of belittling and physical abuse from Meanmom were secured so she could focus only on her daughter’s needs. The pain grew exponentially even so and she for the first time delegated all of her disgust and unspoken words to her most trusted confidant, her husband. Rock was proud Lm did not react by lashing out at her Meanmom or by letting her own tongue spew regrets. Her husband who has now adopted Lm’s daughter stood up as a father should, in the way BadDad never did for her as a young adult, and became the kind of person she admires. Dear Swedish Italian Viking, my favourite human spoke to Meanmom while Lm comforted her daughter and now she is even more in love with her Swedish Italian Viking husband. Now Lm must consult with Rock and decide how to proceed forward on this day after the incident with Meanmom scheduled to be here for another month. Luckily, Meanmom stays in the little house on the property and not in the same house with Lm, B and her husband. What makes all of this so important that it needs to be written down? Lm is growing stronger and is not afraid as often even if triggered. Most importantly is that Lm adopted her baby with her first husband 25 years ago and he disowned B when she came out. Quit, broke her heart and has been swallowed up by bigotry. That loss for B was enormous. After much time passed it became clear the bigot would not contact B more and Lm’s dear husband asked to adopt her.
Think of all the children, the young adults, the humans of any age terrified of living life as who they truly are because they are transgender, gay, or define themselves with a pronoun other than “she” or “he”. Think about the Black skinned, the brown skinned, the Asians of any descent, the hate that gloats and seeps it’s ugly sickness into the hearts of those fighting to live their best life depsite it all. I sit wondering how Lm ever let her guard down, began to trust once again the mother that bore her, that gave her this life; the one that says she loves us yet scars our hearts repeatedly with her hateful words. Lm can’t forgive, Rock pushes emerging ME to stand up for my daughter and I feel the closing in of the circle, the one I’ve tried to keep open with room for my mother’s imperfections; yet when my child, no matter her age is feeling badgered, broken and lost Lm can relate to the stain her grandmother left on her heart yesterday, the final stain (at least from her grandmother). The circle will change; womanhood should be inclusive not exclusive. Am I disappointed in Meanmom or in myself for believeing that continuing to allow her the priviledge to be part of our lives was or is the right thing to do. I don’t know the answers now. Rock unlocks the door at the top of the stairwell and Lm is released into the sunshine; he trusts that she is growing into her first true grasp of what it means to be reunited with her deepest self, that she is integrating and we will continue to rise above all that broke “us” into dissociative fragments as a girl.
Rock proudly states, “She is becoming her own shield.” Will Rock soon be obsolete?
RealStuff by RealMe 
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