Invisible Ink

Since turning 40 I feel like I just picked up all this amazing gear, from power ups to skins (so much Fortnite talk with my boys out of school and my nephew staying with us).

You know what I mean. I’ve been given access to a whole new wing of an amazingly historical house where the woodwork is artwork and the attention to detail in the furnishings is proof that the owner really does love the place.

I’m a victim/survivor/living with an inner child that suffered emotional, physical and sexual trauma. The therapy I’ve had is negligible (not even a year my whole life). Instead, I detached myself from my inner child. She became a girl, in a book I read where these awful things happened and she could never feel safe.

I just realized, now, that when I read the book to my husband, close friends, even family, or to myself as a compulsory act before I finally fell asleep, it was only half of the story.

Lately, I have been allowing myself to read between the lines. Like invisible ink revealing itself, I am remembering sweet moments. My mother is an incredibly talented gardener. Dare I say she is truly gifted. She always had the best garden on the block. She would spend days building tiers with Belgian block and two by fours. In high school, I would walk home from the bus and she would be there, knee deep in coffee and eggshell compost fed soil, or standing, long legged with dirt under her fingernails and a smile on her face watering the Celosia she planted in the walkway up to the house. I always laughed when I saw the deep fuschias and bright yellows because Celosia sounds a little like celosa in Spanish. Celosa means jealous. When my mother was in her truth and owning the divine side of her femininity, you couldn’t help but be a little celosa. At least that’s how other women looked at her.

So where am I going with all this?

By not reading the invisible ink I’ve cut myself off from my shadow self. The one who loves plants and flowers and nature and earthly sensuality.

I would end the reading of “mystory” with the “I told you she was a witch, born on Halloween!” She really is born on Halloween. But I used that as quick proof to others that she was as I portrayed her. Evil. Nothing else.

She can cook in a way that heals you and comforts aches you didn’t know you had. There were moments of her frenzied baking sprees. For months I went to school with freshly baked cookies (some for me and some for friends).

For a long time, I did the exact opposite of my mother. If she went left at a crossroads in her life, I went right. I was running as fast as my legs could carry me away from her looming presence and firm grip around me.

Now that the ink is seeping through, I’m ready to see the words, follow my heart by following all the good my mother taught me.

I am taking an Intro to Herbalism class with Herbal Academy* and I feel more in my element as I sit on my deck, with some lemon water, a book on Kundalini yoga, my laptop and the breeze through the trees. The bluest sky without a cloud in it as if to tell me “here. Now you write”. Hell, I realized that my dream wedding before life hit was at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens!!! My earliest memory of Halloween was where she dressed me up as Mother Nature. She took flowers from the dollar store, removed the stems and attached the blooms to an old sheet, cut out a hole for my head and used the rest of the flowers for my crown. My life long affair with plants stems from my mother!

And my mother and I share the same Aquarian moon. Come on! How did I miss it?

I wonder what else I’ll find as I uncover the words my inner child subconsciously covered when she was protecting herself from all the sadness.

I’m finally facing what I wasn’t ready to. This is part of my new truth.

* Disclosure: Some of the links above are affiliate links, meaning, at no additional cost to you, I will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. I only recommend what I use and love.

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