The Wayback Machine

I can't remember the first time I thought I belonged elsewhere, in another time or place. I wanted to be in the presence of mystics, faeries and crones who could tell me the secrets of the wild. What I do remember is gathering flowers, berries and acorns - then using them to make potions or art projects or imaginary scenes. I watched the wind blow through the hills of tall grass, undulating like waves. The tall stalks  and wildflowers bent in the breeze, appearing flattened, but would stand again with a magical and rhythmic motion. I can still see the tiny white popcorn flowers, buttercups, poppies, lupine, German chammomile and other nameless but beautiful things. In the woods and creeks, there were countless places to explore. Gold mines to sneak in, trees to climb, and "helping" in my Mom's bountiful garden. At 41 (tomorrow), I can remember it this way now. 

That's her. Flowerlove Prettyplease. I don't even remember myself then. I have very few memories of my childhood at all. I'm sure there were happy moments. At least I think so. But I don't remember. I only remember feeling empty and unworthy. Angry and unlovable. I was full of all these huge feelings that exploded in ways that nobody, especially myself, could handle.  I'm doing this for her. Now she is guided by hospice work, motherhood, Wellbutrin and The 12 Steps.  I try to remember that she is surrounded by loving energy, and my morning meditation consist of me sitting on the edge of a hill, overlooking those waves of grass and flowers. She sits in my lap, and we look for birds and deer - I snuggle her and kiss her head. She knows she is safe. Even now, as I hear my children bicker over silly things, I know I am where I should be at this exact moment. Imperfection and all.