Grandma and the Night Visitors

I found a small, green, plastic frog smack in middle of the sidewalk as I was leaving work a while ago.  Although I had no use for a child's plaything, I picked it up anyway, because something about it called out to me.  In other words, I felt I was supposed to find it because it had a message meant especially for me.  No surprise there.  I'm always seeing signs in the most mundane of circumstances.  But that, of course, is what signs are all about - no one but the person they're intended for understands their significance.

Although I felt drawn to the toy frog, it was a while before I knew why.  In the meantime I left it lying around my bedroom, occasionally moving it from one place to another, all the while talking to it as if it were a living, breathing creature - just like a beloved pet.  I knew I was being ridiculous for speaking sweetly to a piece of plastic, but I couldn't help myself.  The baby talk just kept coming out of my mouth.  This went on for about a week until I finally stashed it out of sight to prevent any more flaky behaviour.
I couldn't forget its effect on me, however.  I already knew that frogs  are spirit guides that represent cleansing, transformation, renewal and rebirth; attributes they've earned because they live in and around water, and change from tadpole to full grown frog during their life cycle.  I found the little guy just a few days before I quit my long-time job at a large format bookstore, so I thought perhaps my sudden unemployed status was the renewal and transformation symbolised by the frog.
I didn't know I'd be quitting my job as abruptly as I did.  I was miserable at work, so I gave my two weeks notice, as any responsible employee should.  But I just couldn't stick it out, and ended up leaving before the two weeks were up.  Maybe accepting defeat as I did was the "cleansing" that froggy signified.
But the little green guy's message was deeper than that.  While I was grappling with suddenly being unemployed and talking to a toy, I couldn't let go of the thought that Grandmother Ayahuasca had something to do with the fake frog that had crossed my path.
I've written about Grandmother and her profound influence on my life a number of times, and how she speaks to me through signs and synchronicities.  It's been many months since I've visited her in the Amazon rainforest, but occasionally she still talks to me in her magical way.  And lately it seems, it happens more than ever.  One of the clearest ways she communicates with me is through animal helpers.  I think of them as her teaching assistants.
Seven years ago in Peru, after my very first nauseating, vomit-inducing ceremony, a large, black German shepherd "spoke" to me about my experience.  While I was sitting on a swing the morning after the ceremony, musing on the night before, he loped right up to me, looked me squarely in the eye, and then vomited on the grass.  He then trotted all away round the swing I sat on, stopped in front of me again, and spewed some more before taking his leave.  That was his way of telling me that tea time with Grandma wasn't about my naive hopes that I'd commune with plants and animals of the rainforest, or receive mystical insights into the Cosmos.  The ayahuasca ceremony is first and foremost about healing, and always has been.  In my case it was about healing my long history of depression. 
I recognised that large, black German Shepherd as a symbol for depression. Winston Churchill famously referred to his bouts with the mental illness as visits from the "black dog."  (Stories of Churchill's depression have been recently refuted by historian Andrew Roberts.  However, I learned of Churchill's black dog several decades ago, so I'm sticking with that metaphor.  It works for me.)

The last time I had tea with Grandma was on my second visit to Peru 16 months ago. By then I had no more illusions about what to expect, even though you're not supposed to expect anything.  I was there for more healing and to establish a solid foundation for myself.  While there I bonded with a six week old chicken and called her my Little Lame Chick, because she hobbled due to a deformed foot.  I wanted balance and stability, and my little lame chick reminded me of it every time I saw her endearing, lopsided gait. 
The significance of her limp wasn't lost on me, but it's only been in the last few weeks that I've remembered something else that somehow escaped my notice until now. 
One of the funniest, most memorable cartoons I've ever read, and which I've included here, is from The Far Side, by Gary Larson.  He has a twisted sense of humour that has always appealed to me, and many of his hilarious observations are deep lessons in life.  Many years ago it made me laugh at a time when I hadn't laughed or felt joy for a long while, because I was experiencing another depressive episode.  (It's okay if you roll your eyes.  I'm tired of it, too.)  Anyway, it was so spot-on funny that a number of years later I sent it to my Goddess Mother, Gita Tante, to pass unto her daughter/my cousin, Laura, who was in the throes of deep, bipolar depression.  Not only is it hilarious and poignant, but as I look at it now, I wonder why it took me so long to make the connection between that meaningful cartoon and my little lame chick. 

Once again, Grandma had an animal teaching assistant remind me that drinking her tea is meant for healing.  In fact, the last time I drank her tea I didn't receive the highly welcome euphoria that comes after the effects have worn off.  After reeling for hours from nausea, instead of the usual post-ceremonial bliss,  I plunged into despair and wept aloud.  And boy, was I pissed about that.  I couldn't understand what had gone wrong, especially because I'd prayed at the beginning of the ceremony for Grandma to show me the ways of the Wise Woman. 
It wasn't until I saw my little lame chick the next morning that I realised my journey through  depression was the path I must take to achieve wisdom.  But what I didn't understand was that the unhappy ending to the ceremony also meant that I still had more healing to do. 
Wisdom denotes being able to maintain equanimity in good times and bad.  It took me 16 months of a lot of up-and-downing to finally figure that out.  As I look back on Grandma's lesson now, it seems so obvious.  But hindsight is 20-20.  And that brings me back to my toy frog... 
I needed to know why I kept thinking of Grandmother when I looked at that silly, green thing.  So after some googling I discovered that there's a tree frog secretion called kambo that a few indigenous cultures in the Amazon use to treat chronic pain and drug dependence.  And - drum roll, please - it's sometimes used in conjunction with Grandmother's jungle juice, ayahuasca!  Although the frog isn't hurt while the poison is extracted, and is released supposedly unharmed afterwards, the hapless creature must endure what looks like a cruel and demeaning procedure.  That's not my cup of tea, and Grandma knows it. 
I'm sure she doesn't expect me to avail myself of the frog's powerful and potentially lethal substance.  She just needed to catch my attention by dropping a facsimile of an Amazonian tree frog on a northern city sidewalk in the winter.  So there it was.  The fake frog I found was surely a sign from Grandma. 
When I first gave notice that I'd be going on sick leave, I devised a plan I thought would make things easier for me until I officially left the job.  I decided to take just a few days off and fly far, far away where I didn't know anyone, and no one knew me.  And it had to be some place I'd never been before. 
So I picked Amsterdam, known to be a tourist-friendly, very walkable city.  It may have been a financially ill-advised decision, but I figured my mental health was worth the expense.  I booked it a scant three weeks before I was to leave, with only two weeks of employment left after I got back.  I wanted something to look forward to and take my mind off anything that aggravated me at work.  I find that much of the pleasure of travel is anticipating the forthcoming adventure.  I reasoned that when something threw me off balance while on the job, and that happened daily, I'd just think about my mini-vacation in Amsterdam and I'd be able to get through the day. 
By now you know that plan didn't work.  I just up and quit before my scheduled trip.  Since I didn't want to lose any money for late travel cancellation, I went anyway. 
The city of Amsterdam itself didn't disappoint - lots of  museums, art, architecture, canals, cafes (both the coffee and cannabis kind), friendly people who all speak English, and all the other stuff that beautiful, European cities are known to offer.  Although I'd gone to Amsterdam to escape my spiritual malaise, I quickly learned that the woes I was hoping to flee followed me there. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that my troubles had emissaries waiting  to greet me upon my arrival.
I landed in Amsterdam in a perfectly fine frame of mind.  I felt certain I would have three fun-filled,  care-free days to myself.  But that was not to be.  After my first night in a lovely, reasonably priced hotel, which included a scrumptious breakfast, I woke up to find several large, red, angry bites on my right knee.  I recognised them right away as the work of bed bugs.  And need I say, that in order to have recognised them for what they were, I've encountered those creepy critters before? 
Yes, it's true.  It doesn't make me proud to admit that my life experience now includes not one, not two, but five - count 'em - five separate incidents with those blasted buggers.  So when I saw those wretched bites on my knee after one night in a city where I was hoping to escape the nightmares that assailed me at home, I went into denial - big time.   A frantic voice in my head kept screaming no no no no no!  It's not bed bugs!  It's spiders! It's allergies!  Anything but bed bugs!  Aargh!!!
I spent the next two days doing what a typical spinster/writer who travels alone does.  I walked, took lots of pictures, and frequented cafes where I nursed wine as I wrote copious notes in my journal, all the while ignoring the fact that my hotel room was infested with b.b.s.  And yet - surprise! surprise! - each morning I awoke with more bites.  Those creepy crawlers hit pay dirt with me because I couldn't, or wouldn't, believe they'd found me again.  It didn't seem fair.  Was I just plain unlucky?  Or was the Universe telling me I shouldn't travel? 
I know a lot of people who've travelled much more than I have, and they've never had the slightest problem with insect infestation.  So instead of going into why me mode, I pretended like hell there was nothing wrong.  And believe me, every time I've had extended run-ins with b.b.s, I have to do a lot of pretending.  Even though they constantly prey on my mind and various parts of my body, it's  something I just can't mention in polite company, lest I be regarded as some kind of latter day Typhoid Mary.
On my last morning before the airport shuttle came to pick me up, I very discreetly informed the lovely hotel receptionist of the situation.  She emailed me a few days later to tell me that the hotel had professional exterminators come in to check it out, and they confirmed that my room did, in fact, have bed bugs.  No kidding.  I guess I should have mentioned I had expertise in bed bug infestation myself. 
Two out of the five times I've encountered those friggin' pests has been overseas in perfectly nice hotels.  The first time was in Venice, also known for its canals.  (And what the f*#k do cities with canals and b.b.s. have to do with each other?)  Anyway, thrice more (sorry - I just love an excuse to use a word like "thrice"), I've had to cope with six-legged vermin setting up camp in my home-sweet- home.  I know for sure that neither of the incidents abroad were the reason the buggers showed up in my bed and on my body at home.  When they were on my turf they'd arrived through domestic channels.  Yeah.  Like that makes it better.   
Being an autodidact in b.b. infestation, I was fairly certain I hadn't brought them back from Amsterdam.  But to make sure no bugs had hitched a ride back with me, I took all the necessary precautions and procedures before I left Amsterdam, and especially when I got home.  I sure as hell didn't want to end up dealing with all the onerous work, expense, and conflict to exterminate the creepy critters. 
The good news is there weren't any b.b.s.  The bad news is that the numerous bites I bore took more than a week to fade from sight, reminding me of the  creepy welcoming committee I encountered in Amsterdam.  They were there to tell me I can't run away from the crap I keep in my head. 
That being said, let's make it perfectly clear that bed bugs are not spirit guides.  Just try to find them described as spirit animals anywhere on the web.  You'll find all kinds of insects mentioned as animal guides, but not so b.b.s.  Gee.  I wonder why.

It's a sad irony, however, that I'm actually rather fond of bugs.  Many of those six-legged creatures add grace and beauty to gardens and forests, and play an important role in maintaining the delicate balance of nature.  On my last visit to Peru I found a very large, jungle-size  grasshopper in the hut where I slept.  She was a beautiful, vivid green colour, and missing a hind leg.  When I mentioned the gorgeous creature to Jessica, the ayahuascera at the retreat, she informed me that grasshoppers are  manifestations of Grandmother Ayahuasca.  Oh wow!  It made perfect sense, especially because she was crippled, just like my little lame chick.  When it comes to receiving messages from the spirit world, I'll take a large, lame grasshopper over a bed bug anytime.
But I'm pretty sure Grandmother didn't have anything to do with the b.b.s in Amsterdam.  Sure, they were the perfect trope for what I was going through, but that's not Grandmother's style when it comes to sending me signs.  She can be tough, but she's not cruel.  Those bugs turning up as they did was my doing, and I take full responsibility for it.  The negative energy I'd been sending out for weeks happened as a result of frequent nightmares and sleeplessness.  I was hoping all that would just magically disappear for a few nights if I flew far away.  I should have known better. 
Although b.b.s  aren't spirit animals, and for good reason, they've come to have very deep, personal significance to me.  When my fears and doubts are on the wane and I'm finally enjoying some genuine slumber (and yes, there are moments), b.b.s and rats - that's right, rats - decide to show up.  And so another cycle of fitful, sleepless nights begins.  I defy anyone to get a decent night's sleep with rats partying down an arm's length from your bed with only a thin wall to separate you, or bed bugs chowing down on your flesh in the few moments you finally get some sleep.

I suppose all this makes it sound as if I live in some grotty hell-hole in a tough, seedy neighbourhood.  But that's just not the case.  I live in a lovely, leafy part of the city, and my personal space in the house I call home is reasonably clean and orderly.  I make sure of that.
So how can I not conclude that there's more going on than random misfortune?  Of course there is.  That's the universe I live in.  It's the one I've created - what with my love of signs and magical messages.  So yeah, my unwelcome expertise with pestilence serves a larger purpose.  It proves to me that magical happenstance isn't always rainbows and unicorns.  There's some pretty heavy mojo to contend with out there.
My history with rats isn't a happy story, either. Of course a lot of folks might think there's no way a rat story could possibly be happy. Fair enough, but rats have ambivalent symbolism as power animals throughout various cultures and traditions.  They have some good points, too.  But it was the sad and sorry tales of my life in rat-land that Grandma called upon the last time I participated in a ceremony.  On that occasion I hadn't drunk any tea, so I fell asleep sooner than I normally would have.
The ceremonial hut had a fairly large gap between the top of the walls and the roof.  The gap allows breezes to blow through and supply much needed ventilation.  That's where the rat appeared, skittering across the top ledge of the wall directly above me while I slept.  He could have turned up anywhere on that ledge, but of course he chose to do his little dance right over me.  Since I'd slept through the incident, I didn't find out about his visit until the next morning at breakfast, when a retreat mate made a joke about it.  Although I prefer to be fully present when synchronicity shows up, I'm glad to have heard about that one second-hand.  Still, it figures - even when I don't drink her tea, Grandmother knows how to play with my head.
It hasn't been easy since I came back from Amsterdam, which is an understatement if there ever was one. Instead of being plagued with  household vermin, I'm bothered by the bugs in my brain, which are a lot more difficult to eradicate.  Unfortunately, my inner "stuff" recently busted out of me in a most unseemly manner.  I felt as if I'd been struck by lighting and then crumbled into a heap of ash.  I like to think that there's a redbird  somewhere in the rubble that's left behind, waiting to rise up and fly free of all the psychic crap in my head.  Good riddance to bad rubbish and all that.  That redbird hasn't shown up yet, but in my stronger moments I have faith she will.  Otherwise, what would be the point of such an ignominious fall? 
As for Grandmother, I'm going back to the Amazon rainforest to have tea with her soon.  The hard lesson she taught me 16 months ago has finally sunk in, thanks to a tiny toy frog she put on my path.  Finding that frog has sent me on a journey to the jungle to continue my transformation and healing.  And I know it won't be easy. 
But I'm ready.
Or not. 
Anyway, Grandma - here I come...
- g.p.

Floating Home

Dear Readers:  Please know that the following story from my past reveals my birth name, because it's about me long before I gave myself the nom de plume of Gossamer Penwyche. 

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: "I'll go take a hot bath."
- Sylvia Plath

I was a breech birth.  That was the first and probably most meaningful sign in my life.  Despite its deep significance, I didn’t learn about the circumstances of my birth until I was thirty-three years old.

Although I knew nothing of numerology, I’d favoured the number three since childhood when I learned that good things (and sometimes bad) happen in threes, such as the granting of wishes by fairy godmothers.  No further thought or reason went into keeping three as my favourite number.  Anything to do with fairies was good enough for me.  So a couple of decades later, as my thirty-third birthday approached, I had a deep feeling I was entering a very good year, and invited a few friends over to celebrate.  My mother came over before the other guests to help me set up for the festivities, after which she would leave to let me party with my friends.
While my mother was still there my guests seated themselves rather demurely in the living room, glasses of wine in hand, waiting to bring out the weed once my mother took her leave.  My friend Calvin, ever the provocateur, changed the very polite, slightly stilted conversation by posing an unusual question to my mother. 
“So, Mrs. Remkins,” he asked, “was Silvia an easy birth?”
I cringed.  I was certain my mother wouldn’t discuss my birth with a dozen strangers, because she’d never done so with me.  I thought she’d be embarrassed and evasive.  After a brief, reflective pause she spoke.
“Well, no, actually.  It was very hard.  Silvia was a breech birth.  The doctor had to turn her around three times before she came out."
I was gobsmacked, not only for my mother’s uncharacteristically frank answer, but because I was hearing this information for the first time in my life, and on my thirty-third birthday no less.  All at once the number three took on even more significance.   Three times I turned my back (or feet) on entering the outside world before I was forcibly removed.  It was an it’s a sign moment long before those three words became a mantra of mine. 
As I pondered my mother’s extraordinary revelation, my roommate Toria, who was sitting next to me, leaned over and whispered “That’s a sign you didn’t want to be born.” 
Talk about signs of things to come.  Suddenly my whole life made a little more sense.  The new knowledge of my entry into life explained many of the choices I’d made, as well as some of the things I liked and didn’t like.  It certainly helped me understand my love of warm baths and hot tubs.

When I first discovered this cheap, accessible form of therapy, I sometimes spent so much time in the tub I’d fall asleep.  (There was never any danger of drowning.  Taking water in through the windpipe has a way of rudely and very quickly waking you up.)  And it was never about washing to get clean.  I didn’t lift a finger to perform any sort of ablutions.  I just lay perfectly still, submerged up to my chin.  Within a few weeks of beginning my multiple soaks a day, I noticed an unsightly, dark ring forming around my neck.  I had no explanation for it, nor did I connect it to my daily soaks.                                
I didn’t figure out why I had a muddy-looking circle around my neck until I met my sister for lunch one day at an outdoor café.  As we chatted over wine spritzers and salad my sister suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and stared at my neck.
“What’s that ugly ring around your neck?”  She’s never been one to mince words, at least not with me.
“I don’t know.  It was very faint a few weeks ago, but it’s getting darker.  I just can’t figure out - Oh..."
Then it dawned on me.  The ring around my neck was the water mark I’d developed after weeks of submersing myself up to my chin in still water.  Even though I wasn’t dirty, the body’s natural oils floated to the surface and stuck to my skin.  I’d contracted a case of bathtub ring.
The ring disappeared quite easily with some soapy scrubbing.  Okay, so my bathtub ring didn’t really have any metaphysical significance, but it was a sign that I was spending way too much time in the bathtub. Since then I always add some bubbles to my bath for self-cleaning purposes, and move around a bit to stir up the water.                      
Water is one of the best conductors of sound, which means that a growing, free-floating foetus feels vibrations from sounds and emotions originating outside of the womb.  My mother was three months pregnant when she and my father were married.  I don’t think I was an unwanted child, but I certainly was an unexpected one.  Add that to an unexpected husband after a rapidly arranged marriage, and setting up new living arrangements, my mother must have been under considerable pressure while she was pregnant with me.

The carefree time I spent submerged in the safety and warmth of the womb also explains my love of floating.  When I spend time in any body of water larger than a bathtub, which is usually a fresh-water lake or river, I prefer bobbing around and floating on the surface to actually swimming.  The element of water is where I prefer to relax or play, not exert myself.  Just let me breathe deeply while doing a gentle breast stroke and I’m exactly where I want to be.  The Australian crawl is for Type A personalities, which I’m decidedly not - another thing my resistance to being born and taking on life in the “real” world would seem to have presaged.  Floating has always been my preferred speed and style.  That’s probably one of the reasons I like my wine and weed.
I’m sure not everyone who’s born breech feels as I do.  But I’m a writer, which is why I can’t ignore a major metaphor that describes the most significant passage in my life so far.  Being born is a struggle, even for people with uncomplicated deliveries.  If everyone remembered the major trauma of their birth, we’d all suffer from PTSD.  Not an auspicious beginning. 
Near death, paranormal, and extreme events aside, death is the other most powerful passage in a person’s life.  If I have any control over how I take my leave of this mortal coil, it’s because I’ve been reading the signs along the way.  I don’t intend to rage against the dying of the light.  Although Dylan Thomas’s poetic advice on how to die is an exquisite metaphor, it’s not mine.
When I go, I hope I float.
- g.p.

From the Mouths of Babes

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. 

Turning the Page

To my Fanatical Followers:  Not too long ago I received a final rejection for a book proposal I'd sent to numerous publishers.  I took a downward spiral into a trough that I'm still digging my way out of.  Constant failure and rejection can be a real bummer. 

The book I'd proposed was about the many signs and synchronicities that turn up in my life, and how they've helped me heal and cope with depression.  As required, I'd written several sample chapter/stories to submit in the proposal.  Since the little web you're reading now is  also about signs and includes a number of stories about my history of depression, I've decided to post a couple of the chapters I wrote for the proposal right here.  I'll be damned if I put so much time and effort  into writing all those words and then have them sit unseen in my files.
Unlike the blurbs I write for this little web, which tend to be about stuff that's currently going on with me, the personal essays I wrote for the proposal mostly describe events from the past.  The new-agey/self help book I proposed is autobiographical, so it gets pretty confessional at times.  You have been warned.
Anyway, here goes...

I used to cut myself as a way of releasing “bad blood” from my body, the kind of blood that tainted my soul.  Or so I imagined.  I discovered cutting as a form of self-punishment, or self-improvement, while making half-assed attempts at slicing my wrists with razor blades for the purpose of putting an end to myself.  Obviously I wasn’t successful. That’s got to be the only time I’m glad to have been a complete failure. 
The horrible habit of cutting myself stuck around for a while in the early years of my life as a depressed adult.  The only way I felt I had any power over my feelings was to abuse my body.  I was rendered powerless by brain chemicals running amuck.  When my brain was engaged in chemical warfare, the compulsion to cut was overwhelming, and I almost always succumbed. 
Apart from the masochistic pleasure of feeling myself bleed, cutting was a symbolic act for me. I was fascinated by the way the blood that oozed from the superficial cuts on the inside of my arms formed rows of small, red beads that slowly expanded and then merged together, creating glistening, crimson lines on my skin.  It gave me perverse comfort because it appealed to my sense of drama.  I was a struggling, failing actress - I had to get my drama somewhere.   
Unfortunately, I was expressing the worst part of myself.  But my anger and self-loathing had to be released somehow, and cutting offered me a controlled, albeit disturbed way to get rid of all the emotional crap that was roiling inside me.  Despite the chemical soup of bad hormones that pumped through my body, the actual act of cutting myself was always carefully executed.  I was very focused and determined as I let the bad blood flow into the bathroom sink and watch it go down the drain.  I liked knowing that eventually my ugly feelings would end up in the sewer where they belonged.  It was all so very dramatic, and rife with  symbolism.  When I eventually realized that this demeaning way to punish myself fulfilled my need for drama and ritual, I was hooked.            

I cut slowly and carefully, taking my time between each line that I inscribed unto my flesh.  There was something strangely soothing about it, even a little euphoric. That’s not as sick as it seems.  Scarification, which is a tribal rite of passage in some West African countries, is known to induce a euphoric state in the participants, because the brain naturally releases endorphins to reduce the pain. There’s also the social and communal element of these tribal rituals, which would explain the more pleasurable psychological effects of scarification.  This appealed to my love of ritual drama, too.  Unfortunately, I besmirched the sanctity of my private rites of passage by making sure the temporary high I got from cutting stuck around for a while  by downing a couple of mild tranquilizers with a glass or two of wine.  Then I’d just float about in a semi-stupor while cradling my wounded arm like an infant, which I’d tenderly wrapped in gauze bandages. 
Although I performed this ritual in the privacy of my bathroom, the results of my handiwork were clearly visible for a couple of weeks afterwards.  I once overheard a co-worker at one of my many in-between-gigs-I-never-got jobs say that the inside of my arms looked like corduroy. I usually wore long sleeves for a while after my masochistic rituals, but eventually the fresh wounds turned into puffy, red scars which remained for a long time.  Sooner or later someone was bound to see them. 
My mother first saw my cuts when I was staying at the family cottage.  We were lounging on the dock, spending the day jumping in and out of the lake when she noticed the sore, red welts on my arm.  I heard her gasp and fully expected her to plunge into her mother/nurse role, fussing all over me.  But that’s not what she did.  I saw her suddenly stiffen, her jaw firmly set.  Any maternal instincts were completely absent, because she kicked into denial and a “keeping up appearances” mode.
“That’s disgraceful,” she pronounced with finality. 

My “habit” was never mentioned again.  It was as if it never happened.  In later years, when I indulged in other, more acceptable forms of self-abuse such as excessive drinking and pot smoking, there was never any lack of “discussion” about all my self-medicating.
My cutting days are long gone, and since then I’ve acquired a couple of tattoos, which were applied when I was honouring, rather than lamenting, a rite of passage.  The one on my upper left arm is a butterfly, representing transformation.  Okay, that’s hardly original, but at least it’s attractive.  The one above my right ankle bone is a hummingbird, which I got on the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death. 

On my first visit to the tattoo studio, I was feeling rather smug about how the procedure barely hurt at all, despite dire warnings from seasoned tattoo recipients.  The whole thing didn’t seem much different than going to the hairdressers for a haircut.  While the tattooist and I carried on a casual conversation about nothing in particular, he suddenly asked me, “Do you drink a lot?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” I muttered, a little taken aback.  “It depends on what you consider a lot.  So, uh, why do you ask?”
“You bleed a lot.  Alcohol thins the blood.”
Oh boy.  I just couldn’t get away from it.  There I am, under highly controlled conditions, getting a sign on my body that’s supposed to indicate positive change in my life, and I’m still letting go of bad blood.  So much for keeping my lurid past a secret.  That tattoo took on more meaning than I intended.  But that’s okay.  It’s more interesting that way.            
One of my entirely unintentional self-inflicted scars happened one drunken night a decade and a half ago.  I had spent the evening with a friend who was even more depressed than I was.  Our dysfunctional friendship was based on mutual misery we discovered about each other in a local bar.  Most of our time together was spent enabling each other’s self-destructive habits.  On the night in question I left her place as I always did, unable to remember why I was so miserable, and everything else about my life.  I lived only two short subway stops away, but chose to walk instead.  When I’m sober the walk takes about twenty minutes.  I have no idea how long it took me to get home that night.  But I’m lucky I did.
The next morning I woke up in bed to find the sheets splattered with bright, red blotches.  My left shin was caked in dried blood.  Somewhere between my friend’s place and mine I had come upon a mishap that left a deep, inch-long gouge on my shin, and no doubt lots of my DNA somewhere on the park sidewalk in the west-end of the city.  The scar that remains isn’t pretty, but it’s powerful.

The body is a canvas.  It shows a person’s history, even when it’s being deliberately disguised or covered up.  I look at people’s clothes, makeup, cosmetic surgery, tattoos, and scars (whether deliberately inflicted or not) as markings that hide or enhance personal stories.  Terrible accidents can leave a beautiful soul with physical disfigurement.  Cosmetic surgery can make the normal, natural aging process look like a fake and freakish attempt to maintain one’s youth.   It doesn’t matter whether the story is happy or sad, good or bad, I want to know what it is.  It’s the way I learn compassion and understanding, even for people I don’t like.   
The sad scars that I deliberately put on my skin many years ago are faint and barely noticeable now, and where few people can see them.  But I’m glad some vestige of that painful period of my life remains posted on my body.  They’re reminders of past injuries and lessons learned.  They mark a path I’m never taking again.
So mote it be.
- g.p.

Underground Angel

While riding the subway home from work recently, I was suddenly aroused from my mid-afternoon stupor by a young black woman loudly proclaiming something-or-other as she walked up and down the subway car.
“Uh-oh,” I thought, “another out-patient who forgot to take her meds.”  My reaction was basically the same as the numerous other passengers on the car.  Most of us looked up to see what was going on, and then quickly looked away so as not to make eye contact with the “loon” who was making a scene.  The young woman persisted in her rant, so I couldn’t help stealing glances until I finally settled into watching her do her thing, even if it meant catching her eye.
As soon as I began to pay genuine attention it was obvious she wasn’t mentally off-balance.  In fact, she was anything but.  She was well groomed, nicely dressed, and completely focused.  She had a story to tell with a serious message.
“I’m speaking to all of you today because I know that there’s at least one of you who woke up this morning and wondered if it was worth it,” she began.  “You wondered if there was any point in getting out of bed and pretending that you cared about anything.”  She spoke with authority and passion.  “And just maybe one of you even considered ending it all.”
Wow.  Those were mighty powerful words to hear on what began as another ho-hum, Sunday afternoon subway ride.  It occurred to me that perhaps she was a performance artist.  She certainly had the conviction and presence for it.

“It’s not about your age, or gender, or the colour of your skin,” she said, “it happens to all kinds of people everywhere, and they show us who they are every day and all over social media.  You know that selfie you see on Instagram of a beautiful teenage girl who looks so bright and happy?  That’s one tiny moment of her life when she faked a smile and looked good long enough to snap a picture of herself.  Then she posts the picture so everyone can see just how awesome she is.  And after she’s put it out there she collapses into her bed and cries and cries and cries.”
The young woman on the subway wasn’t talking about a situation I’ve personally experienced, because I’m not part of the selfies and social media generation.  But I’ve certainly felt the emotions she was describing.  It was as if she’d been spying on me that very morning and boarded the subway car to deliver her message especially to me.  It was a thrilling shot of synchronicity.
Despite the deep, uncomfortable truths the young woman shared, I could see that there were still a number of passengers who refused to pay attention to her.  I wondered if they weren’t listening because they still judged her to be another nut case who was making a scene in public. Or maybe they were just too embarrassed to look up and reveal that they were actually taking notice.  But that wasn’t the case for everyone.  I noticed murmurs and nods of approbation from several people who were obviously tuned into what she was saying.  I heard a mother, sitting with her pre-adolescent daughter, whisper “right on” as she held up her smartphone to video the spirited young woman.

“Haven’t we all been there?” our heroine went on to say.  “Haven’t we all known days like that?  And haven’t we seen with our own eyes and hearts others just like us?  Know this, good people, you are enough.  I’m 22 years old, and let me tell you, I know for sure that you are enough.”
I wanted to cheer, but I didn’t possess the courage that the lovely subway speaker displayed.  She repeated you are enough so many times that it became a mantra.  I’m old enough to be that girl’s grandmother, and I couldn’t help marvelling that such gutsy, wise words came from one so young. 
Perhaps she was the girl in the selfie she spoke about, or knew someone who was.  I don’t know if she was a performance artist or not, but she was certainly an advocate for mental health care.  And she had the courage to board a subway car in the biggest city in the country, full of all kinds of people from all walks of life, and spread a message of hope and self-worth to anyone who cared to listen.            
In keeping with my beliefs and the way things work in my universe, I know that it wasn’t mere coincidence that she took her personal mission unto the very car where I was seated on that exact day.  Although my circumstances aren’t as dire as the ones she described when she first began to speak (I don’t want to “end it all”), her words touched me deeply.  I also believed her when she said I was enough.

That brave and beautiful stranger also helped at least one other person that day.  While she was still in performance mode a slightly scruffy, middle-aged man got up to get off at his stop.  Before leaving the car he walked right up to her and gave her a long and loving hug.  She returned it in kind.  The man’s act of gratitude encouraged me to address her as well when it came time for me to exit the train.
“Thank you,” was all I said.
She took my hand and held it for a moment.  “God bless you,” she replied with a smile meant just for me.  Her parting words confirmed a growing suspicion I had as I was listening to her.  I’d encountered an angel.
- g.p.