Monday, May 11, 2015

Soul Retrieval (Old)

Dear Mama,

I don't believe in such things. Not for a long time. I believe we are born. We live (or something like it). Then, we die. End.

Then why? Why do you persist? Why do I feel like you are here? Sitting next to me on the way to work. Standing just out of sight on the other side of the full length mirror. Or sometimes staring back at me. I see you in those cheekbones, the way my upper lip thins and curls when I smile, or a specific stare I give.

You were my mom when you were alive. Now that she's dead, my psyche has replaced her with you, this projection, heavy, emotional, and tugging at me. The pull begs me, "Turn your head and look! Look into the periphery!" In fact, I can almost see you there. It's almost as if you're outside myself. I never give in because I know if I turn, I will lose the image.

But, then, I realize, it's all me. Just me doing the tugging at myself because I ache to turn my head and see you, some watchful mother from the great beyond. Then there's me again, resisting the tug, recognizing my poor, wounded psyche for what it is. It tries so hard to change the unchangeable, ill-guided strategy for mending the chasm left behind when death ripped you from me like a horrific accident severes limbs.

Poor, misguided, wounded soulbit. I imagine the damaged 17 year old in my mind splitting into two selves; damage grows younger, shrinking as she reverses in age and size. I, on the other side of the split grow older to my current age, looking down at her. She's so little. Head is 90% shining eyes that look so big and old and wise but clearly, too lost and ignorant to draw from that wisdom. She must be what all the shamans talk about when they embark on soul retrievals.

Well, since I'm writing, here's my attempt:

Dear Little Chancey,

I'm sorry you've been separated from yourself so long, little one. I see you there, shapeshifting into Mama's image, wanting to play with me. It's always been you, not her, hasn't it?

I don't remember exactly but, I think it's my fault. I accept it now. I shunned you, refused to face all the pain carried in your little form. I didn't mean to do that, or understand what it could mean to banish you. I just didn't want to look at it. You reminded me too much about the big, suffocating, burning things that paralyzed me when all I wanted to do was run and run and run. I wish I could just say it's a Western thing, but that's no excuse. I'd take it all back if I could. Please come back and I promise to be honest with you. Know that nothing I can do for you changes the unchangeable, that reversing your age doesn't reverse time or undo her cancer or her death. I'm sorry I couldn't/didn't take care of you. I'm sorry Mama is no longer here to take care of you. I will never be her but I will do my best to take care of you. Tomorrow, sometime around 8 PM, will be 10 years. Won't you please come back home? We can honor her together, in our own way, even if she can't hear us anymore. I miss you. And her. You are always welcome and loved.

Love,
Chance

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