Hey there Good Readers: The following story is another piece from my rejected book proposal. It's more or less a companion piece to the previous post. People are like stained glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in; their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.
- Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
It was a warm and sunny day, but I was in a dark and stormy mood. I’d been invited to a friend’s party that evening, and despite my gloom, I really wanted to go. I hadn’t seen my friend for a while, and needed connection. While I wanted to stay curled up in a foetal position in bed, I was also restless and bored and dying to get out and do something or see someone. The conflicting emotions made me feel as if my head were going to explode. However, I knew I could find sure-fire relief from all the craziness by cutting myself.
Unfortunately, if I cut myself I’d have to cover up my angry, new wounds, which I usually applied to the inside of my arms. But I desperately needed to express some blood. My only recourse was to find a place on my body where my shame didn’t show. I decided that the soft, fleshy inside of my thighs would do. So that’s what I did. I was able to relieve my anger and tension without the usual visible signs on my arms. When I went to the party later that evening I wore a long, loose summer frock that hid my dirty work and didn’t rub against my fresh wounds. I was good to go.
There were about a dozen to fifteen people at the party. Everyone spent the evening outside on the patio in the sultry air. The only person I knew was my friend who was hosting the party, which was fine by me. I wanted to sit quietly by myself and watch the evening unfold, listening to the ambient sounds of gentle conversation and laughter. I remained polite and aloof, soothed by the friendly, pleasant, low-key company. A little girl of around five years old skipped and danced around the patio, weaving in and around the circle of seated guests. She seemed very happy to be staying up late with the grownups. On one of her circumambulations, she suddenly stopped directly in front of me. Then she pointed right at me.
"I like her,” she announced to no one in particular. A moment later she resumed her rounds.
That was it. She came and went so quickly I wasn’t sure I had heard her properly. Or maybe I had imagined it. Nonetheless, I was left feeling surprised, pleased, and puzzled all at the same time. It was a heady mix of good emotions, something I hadn’t experienced in a long while. Until that moment I thought I’d been doing a fairly good job of remaining neutral and unnoticed, then along comes an innocent child to indicate otherwise. And it stopped me in my tracks.
I’ve always trusted the words of very young children. Kids are disarmingly honest, and don’t care what others might think. Their neural inhibitors haven’t fully formed, so they tell it the way they see it, whether you want to hear it or not.
The very young, as well as the very old, are able to see beyond the material realm. The very young have recently entered this world, and the very old are soon to leave it. For a short while toddlers and elders live in that in-between world where borders aren’t as clearly defined. They’re able to see beyond the veil. That little girl saw into my deepest self, and must have seen a light that I thought was long extinguished. The psychotherapist David Richo has said that our wounds are often the openings into the best and most beautiful part of us.
I trusted that little girl’s unfiltered, untainted feelings better than I trusted my own. She validated me. Her message was simple and clear – I see you. I like you. You’re worthy. Her words proved to be both a stop sign, and a signal to go ahead. Stop hurting yourself. Move on. Except for one embarrassing incident a number of years later, I stopped cutting myself after that.
I paid attention to the message that little girl delivered, and it changed me. My life didn’t exactly turn around that day, but she pointed me in the right direction. Her words put me on the road to healing. In my books that makes her an angel, but not for the magically-inclined thinking it appears to be.
As a writer I put a lot of faith in words, because they help me to interpret the signs I encounter. Words by themselves are obvious messages, but when I know their origins I understand them even better. The English word angel is derived from the Greek angelos, meaning “messenger.” Angie (that’s what I call her) was a messenger who bore glad tidings, which renders her an angel in a very literal sense. Okay, so she wasn’t some cherub sent by a big, bearded, white guy in the sky, but she sure as heaven delivered the goods.
Amen to that.
- g.p.
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