Finding Sacred Ground

We moved out to the farm in june of last year. It seems like eons ago, but it was just a few months, seven, to be exact.  The summer was a blur of weddings and prep work in this industry. A flurry of 'ready for this' and 'ready for that', you don't really get to enjoy much of the summer. With the level of stress we were under leading up to the move and the first month or so, it's a wonder I remember much.  But the one thing I did know, was after every long job, after every exhausting unloading of a truck at 1:00 am, after a 16 hour day, I knew I was coming home to our little farm. Our little piece of heaven that no one could touch. No matter how busy and crazy we were, we were always coming back to our home. Our new sacred space. In the beginning, we were surrounded by boxes. But bit by bit, box by box, we were able to unpack. Fully unpack. We, okay Carolyn, unpacked things that hadn't been out of their boxes since we moved too California ten years earlier. We had our stuff and we had a new home. A real home, with life and soul and a pulse, if you will. Something our previous house did not have. We moved to the farm and our windows went open, and the farmland came in. Often, I was serenaded to sleep by the crickets and coyotes. I so often find myself standing still, just listening, feeling, being. It has been quite magical, a divine intervention, if you will.

I have also found myself withdrawing from the world. not in a bad way, per se, but just more of a hibernation state. It is January now, and I don't want to go anywhere unless I absolutely have to. I know that seems odd, to become almost a recluse, but for me, it is the first time in so many years that I am somewhat stress free. My shoulders are returning to a relaxed state, by breathing has slowed to a normal pace. I wake each morning, knowing I will see a pole barn full of hay and a field across the way, playing it's part in the cycle of life. I look out at the birds, flitting to and fro between branches. Dancing ever so delicately with each other to balance on the edge of the feeder. The squirrel waiting on the ground below for the extra seeds to be knocked to the ground. I watch my dogs tromp and run with nature. A game of chase with the cat that joined our clan unexpectedly in July. Or the pure joy of a stick in the yard. They are at peace here too.

People say, "We never see you any more". I say, I know and I am sorry. But I have spent the last six years in a whirlwind of insanity and heartache. Doctor's appointments and school meetings. Fighting and crying and pleading and praying. I have watched my family fall apart, and fought like hell to keep that from happening, to no avail. I am tired. There is no other way to put it, just TIRED. I lost myself to medication, fought back from the brink of crazy because of it, I have fought hard for the well being and safety of my children. I have fought off horrible rumors, created by family, attacks from people who think they 'know' everything about my life. I have suffered near fatal emotional wounds from people I had considered close friends, and had to make heart wrenching decisions regarding my own children that no parent should ever have to face. And I am exhausted.

I have almost completely shut myself off from the real world, in a physical sense. I do my job, socialize when I have to, and then, I retreat. To our little farm, our little gem of peace and calm and silence. To rest, to heal, to recover. I am sure this is a dream for most. It sounds ideal, right? Peace and quite, away from it all. But in reality, you cannot escape the world. At least not forever. I have been healing. Processing and healing. My soul had been deeply wounded. So deeply, many days I wondered if it could be healed at all. Many days in the past six years I wondered if I had the strength to get through it. If it wasn't an issue with one of the children, it was a new story being told about my 'wicked' life. An economy heading south and hours cut at work, adding financial strain. Add in the physical aggression from the children, fighting with carolyn, the doctors appointments, hospital trips and constant state of fear, it was a wonder I wasn't highly medicated and hospitalized myself.

I held on. I cannot tell you exactly how, but I did. I did the 'bob and weave' for six straight years. You reach a point where you are afraid to stop moving. If you stop, it may all collapse around you. If you just keep moving, somehow it will keep going. These are irrational thoughts from someone living a high catastrophe life. Even in the Spring of last year, I was still fighting for this crazy world I had not fully created, but was existing in. It was constant calamity and dysfunction at it's worst, but it had been my world for so long, I held on to it, I fought for it, I defended it...until I could defend it no more.

I was on the verge of cracking, falling into a million little shards. Far to many to ever put back together. I could feel it approaching, the shattering from the inside. A rattling at my core, a shift in my being. I was afraid, I was hollow, I was losing everything I fought so hard for. I could take no more.

And then, like a gift from the universe, a friend told me about a little farm house, out in the country, away from it all. The owner was in need of a tenant, and I in need of a home. One look, one breath of air on this little hobby farm, and I knew this was what was meant to happen. This was my new home. This was where I was meant to be, to rest, to heal, to learn to live again.

This little farm has become my sacred ground, my sanctuary; special and private. I have only invited a few people to visit. That is how sacred this place is to me right now. I have a lot of pain in my soul, a lot of tending and mending to do. This is what I needed. A place for the healing to begin. A place where I could just 'be'. Where I could start to feel the emotions I have shelved and locked away. The pain that settled into my body like a skeletal cloak, so deep, so heavy it weighs you down. Wounds that were old, years and years old, that never healed, but oozed and seeped, reminding you they are still here. Too many wounds to count, too much pain to quantify.

After a while, it becomes part of you. Not a great part, not one you talk about. Just a secret part of you that very few people know about. An itch that you can never really scratch, a deep ache that never really goes away. You learn to manage it, ignore it, look past it. There was no more of that once I got here. I knew this was where I was going to release the pain and set myself free.

And so I write. This is my journey out of the darkness. This is my story, of healing, of hope of personal forgiveness and forgiveness of others. For me. My little farm, my sacred ground has reminded me of the beauty on the world, of the pureness of nature, the precious magic of life and every day is a cherished gift.

So, I heal. Slowly. Because healing means dealing. Dealing with the past, taking control, giving these emotions a name and a place. Feeling them instead of shelving them. Letting my head, heart and soul actually respond to this pain, this grief, this sorrow and then sending it down the lane of life's past roads. These feeling will not be ignored or set as aide any more. They deserve to be felt, heard and dealt with.

My wounded soul is beginning to heal. I know it will be a long process, and not always pretty. Many tears will fall and my heart will hurt again as I process things that have happened, but with each issue, with every moment I allow myself to process, my soul is mending, healing and rejuvenating. Yes, there will be scarring, and those scars will never go away. But one day, soon, those scars will become badges of courage, of survival. I will have made it to the other side, whole again, renewed, more refined.

My hope is, in writing this down, someone out there, who has felt as alone and beaten down and scared as I have felt, they will realize they are not alone. There is hope, there is a light. I will be here holding it for you to follow, and we can make it to the other side together.