A Work in Progress

The unfinished painting on my easel is a beautiful reflection.  It mirrors my attempts to piece the words together that will express the feelings flowing through me.  As I look deeper and deeper into my own self I see so many layers.

I sit before the keyboard and try to express the turmoil, the hurt, the secrets hidden not only from the world, but even my own self. Just when I think I have a train of thought to follow with which to weave a cohesive piece, I find that I have splintered off in 5 or 6 different directions.

I want to write about words, the energy behind them and how they have been used so destructively within my family for control, for abuse, for love. I want to express my outrage at the defiling of a child’s innocence and purity of love that began so many years ago by my parent and their parents, and probably their parents.

I want to write about the body, the physical body, and how it stores those memories and unexpressed emotions only to throw them up later in an act of self-love to either heal or self-destruct. I want to share the joys of getting in touch with my body – the temple of God - and learning to lovingly listen to it and all it has to share with me.

And how as I take back my own life and learn to appreciate Jill – not as mom and dad would have molded her to their desires – but Me, as I truly am. It is freeing, empowering and beautiful.

But awareness of the memories is still surfacing. It no longer shocks me, but still saddens me. It seems to be a family tradition this abuse of power and the ‘dirty little secrets’ held.  All this begs to be written and yet I am so tired of devoting energy to it – to them.

But like the painting of blown sand on my easel I will continue to work with it, listening to what is needed next, to keep stepping forward to the finished product – a stunning expression of beauty and truth.

I won’t give up on it. Or me.