The Dance between Light and Dark: In Story

A dance between light and dark the storyHow many days have I laid here lost between sleep, thirst, hunger, wakefulness and regret? To awaken, to truly open my eyes to this new day feels too heavy, too painful. The rocks beneath my body have left permanent imprints in my flesh and yet I dare not move arm or leg, hand or foot to find comfort. Pain is the sole reminder that I’m still alive. A light lingers in the corner, illuminating one small space in the endless darkness. It finds me where I hide in memory so heavy that to really see its glimmer I must open my eyes and then open my eyes again. Hell’s road may be paved with good intentions but its exit is barred by the lies of false prophets and a forked tongued god.

“You don’t have the right to live!” the voice croons gently in my head, every syllable a bullet in the brain. “You can’t ever go home!”

“What is home?” I question, but the voice interrupts.

“You’ve made your bed!”

I fall back into my bed, into a darkness that does not sleep, the voice coming and going, a murmur one moment, a scream the next. The hours pass in slow monotony until I recall a playground with a swing set. The memory is bright, its light pierces the dark that swarms like flies around me. I am warmed by the memory, my body jerking on its sharp rocks, my eyes opening to the corner where a glimmer still waits.

I remember more bright days filled with sunlit kisses and hugs that lasted all day. I remember smiles that lit my world and the warmth of my grandmother’s kitchen. I cry when I remember her, so beautiful with her silver hair and bright blue eyes. Shifting on my rock I raise my hand to catch the spark of light. How glorious the warmth feels on my fingers, its gentle rays sliding to me from no discernable place. I watch the play of light over my skin but my hand is dirty and the shame of filth is too great to bare. The game ends and I am lost again in regret. Grandma scolds me, her voice imperious with contempt,

“The dirt of childhood is easily washed. Yet, the filth and sin of the fallen can never be cleaned away.”

“Did she really ever say that?” I ask the room but my mouth doesn’t move. The thought lives only in my head. Grandma never spoke like that. Lifting my hand again I catch the light, determined not to lose it this time. Always in my heart there is a place for forgiveness. I forgave the one who hurt me, I forgave the people who watched but said nothing, I forgave the doctors who patched me up and handed me back yet where is my forgiveness?

“Do you deserve any?” The heavy question breaks through my thoughts but the voice isn’t mine, it’s an evil thing; it’s not me.
“You aren’t real. I am!” my words rattle the room. The light brightens. I cup it in my hands to hold it close. The closer I hold it the brighter it becomes.

“You are love” the light speaks softly, “born of love, in love, of love and so loved that you shine always, always, always even in the darkness…” I rest back on my hard bed but do not close my eyes. This truth must be absorbed, held, understood in order to feel real. The dark voice returns, shouting out edicts and condemnation that I refuse to hear because the light is with me, it is all I see and all I chose to think on. It’s soft whisper resonating gently through my soul.

“I am love, born of love, in love, of love, so loved…” and lifting my head I roll to my side, moving through the pain to my knees until the light encircles me. It is warm, loving, never failing in its comfort.

“Light be with me always.” I speak my words as a prayer feeling the darkness shrink away with many whining, whispering complaints. That dark voice, with it’s imprisoning words of judgment slides to an incoherent echo. The light draws me in and I am comforted by its softly spoken words.

“Turn to me and I am there. Find me and you find the way home. hear me and know that I am the light of love as you are the love that seeks the light.”

With these words the light and I are one kneeling being, free to stand, free to walk, free to find care, to find comfort, to live and laugh where the voice that judges the fire walkers and the fallen is silenced and blinded by its own darkness. I’ve walked the long cindered mile. I’ve taken the stony path and slept in a bed of my own making but these bruises, scars and burns have molded me, hardened me, opened me up and made me strong in the knowledge that love awaits me and brings comfort to us all.

Let the white light of the Universe
enfold, protect me
and bathe me in its healing love.
Let this journey be a tool
to bring peace of mind,
love, joy and kindness back to my life.
Cleanse my soul of hurt and bitterness,
resentment, vengeful and judgmental thinking.
Give me balance and serenity
to face each trial with faith,
an open mind, love and kindness.
When I get lost, let the sun shine down
white light to show me the way back
to the path of Love.
Amen.
A Prayer By Susan H.

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Eating Your Emotions Part 2 with Joanne Del Core and EE Orme

emotional pain

Today I was able to tape the second part of Eating Your Emotions with the brilliant Joanne Del Core.  Recording these radio shows has been an invigorating and emotional process for me.  Thank you for all your support and for taking the time to listen to the shows.

Blessings and Unconditional Love,

EE Orme

 

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Eating Your Emotions with Joanne Del Core and EE Orme

stiffeling your emotions

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to discuss eating disorders on the radio. This is just one of the disorders that arise when we suppress our emotions, our potential and our authenticity. Please take a moment to listen to this show and forward it to anyone who may need to hear it’s message. Blessings and best wishes,

EE Orme

 

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The Very Human Need for Experience

Good and Evil

Good and Evil


I wanted to shelter my son from the world. I prayed away my foul mouth, hid my tears and played happy family with gusto. I wanted his world to be flowery, fun and fantastically clean. I didn’t tell him about my childhood unless I was telling a funny anecdote about a pet or a friend. I socialized him, took art classes with him and enrolled him in a co-op preschool where I could play perfect with other perfect mothers. Right out of preschool we enrolled in a perfect private school where I was sure he would bloom into the perfect prep school boy. In my search for perfection I lost something integrally important to the development of a well-rounded human. That important missing element was a well-developed sense of reality.

As time passed I began to see the holes in the world I’d worked so hard to create. I wasn’t being myself, my friends were drearily superficial and my son was unhappy in his school. Desperate for answers I turned to a book I stole from my high school, an ancient, dog eared copy of Herman Hesse’s, Siddhartha. I love this book for so many reasons. Like many other great inspirational books I can just open it to any page and find a piece of wisdom that will help me with whatever it is I’m facing. That day I opened the book at the beginning. I read of Siddhartha’s mother, her love for her child and her tragic early death. I read about the prophesy, proclaiming Siddhartha to be the greatest teacher of the age. Then I read his father’s reaction to this prophesy. Having just lost his wife and then faced with the loss of his son to a religious life, Siddhartha’s father created a perfect world in which pain, suffering and old age had no place. He imprisoned Siddhartha in a false utopia and robbed him of reality in order to keep him safe. How did Siddhartha react? He ran away in search of answers to the questions his father could neither pose nor answer.

Child in the Garden of Good and Evil

Child in the Garden of Good and Evil

Setting down the book I began to see the holes I’d identified in my parenting open into rather worrying chasms. I remembered the perfect children I’d known growing up, the ones who’d summered at the country club, vacationed in the tropics with their perfect families only to go slumming as drug using collage kids. I started remembering other sheltered kids who’d gone wild with sex and drugs the moment they’d found freedom from the suffocating control of their perfect worlds. Slowly I began to think that maybe by keeping our children in ignorance of pain and suffering we create a vacuum in their experience which will only propel them into a deeper need to experience the very things we try to protect them from. We cannot limit our children’s experience on this earth by sheltering them from a world they will someday have to live in.

So what is a frightened conscientious parent to do? I still only have a vague idea. In my heart I think a parent’s job is to guide a child through the world but not to shelter them from it. I feel that we must discuss even the small details of their day and how their different interactions made them feel. Most importantly we must validate their emotions with empathy, compassion and a willingness to hear while we admit our own feelings, failings and frustrations within the discourse. In other words it is very important that our children see us as loving, fallible humans whom they can trust with their secrets. We live in a tumultuous world of opposites. As much as we hate to admit it good lives in balance with evil and both must be experienced in order to be understood. We cannot end suffering any more then Siddhartha the Buddha did because suffering is a necessary part of experience and experience is the only true teacher. No matter how hard we try, we cannot recreate heaven on earth because that isn’t why we’re here.

Making Peace with Experience

Making Peace with Experience

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Merida: A Princess Mothers Are Proud Of.

Don't strip Merida of her authentisity.

Don’t let Disney sexy up Merida and strip her of her strength.

I was deeply saddened by Disney’s decision to slim down, sex up and disarm Merida, the princess from the movie Brave. In altering her we tell every American girl that she’s not good enough to be a princess because she doesn’t have a tiny waste, lots of makeup or perfect hair. If Disney had even bothered watching the movie they would know that Merida took off her corset, tangled her hair and ripped up her pretty dress because she knew there was more to life than being a pretty picture to attract a man. Women are more than their parts; this truth must be taught to our daughters or they will always be slaves to body image. Merida taught this lesson and now Disney is stripping her of what made her so magically wonderful, they are stripping her of her authenticity, her healthy figure and her freedom to be real. Please take a moment to sign the petition on Change.org. Sign for every girl who isn’t perfect. Sign for the real girls with brilliant minds, loving hearts and the courage to be brave.

Follow Up: as of May 15th due to negative backlash, Disney has decided NOT to revamp Merida. She will be a princess just the way she is. Thanks to everyone who signed the petition. Job well done.

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Mothers and Sons

mother's and sons

When my son crashed his scooter I patched up his cuts and gave him pudding. Pudding is the cure for all that ails us. It’s my go too medicine for post doctor’s visits, bad colds and scooter crashes. Nothing says, “There, there, you’re all better” like tapioca. My favorite brand is Kozy Shack because it really is Cozy. I taste it and I’m back in my grandmother’s kitchen watching her stir a large pot of pudding on the stove. Kozy Shack tastes like Grandma’s homemade pudding. It’s that good. But I digress.

My son crashed his scooter. He cut up his knee and was just fine until we went to change the bandage and found that the gauze had stuck fast to the scab. Horror struck, my son sat on the bathroom floor and refused all medical help. He’s ten now which means that he doesn’t have to do anything we tell him to. So we sat on the floor with him offering up salve, Q-tips and my grandmother’s advice. “Pull the band aid off fast honey. Doing it slow will just prolong the pain.” The look of horror he gave us after this bit of advice is forever emblazoned on my memory. So we sat, coaxed and cajoled for a good hour while he fought, cursed and accused us of thinking thoughts of unconscionable cruelty.

Children are god’s way of testing our sanity. I’ve failed miserably and come to the conclusion that crazy and child rearing are like oil and water. At one point as he yelled at us to not touch the band aid, I began laughing hysterically. There was no good reason why. The moment was far from funny but we’d reached that point in parenting when the good parent stands by and watches the crazy parent snap. I snapped and Dan sat there looking lost between his strong willed son and his madly euphoric wife.

I could have pinned Duncan down, removed his band aid and then washed out his deep cut. The old me would have done that. The old me was tough and efficient. The old me cornered injured horse and dressed their wounds no matter how bad it hurt them. The old me got things done. The new me is more compassionate and far less organized. The new me picked up her son, sat him in her lap and rocked him until we’d both calmed down enough to deal with our wounds. In the end we pocked, prodded and prayed the band aid off with gentle kindness and no old fashioned efficiency.

I like this new me, I like that my hardnosed, grab the bull by the horns upbringing has sloughed off enough to where I can sit, listen, crack up, recover and still stay nice. Maybe it’s the years of therapy? Maybe it’s my loving marriage? Maybe I’m just a better person then I was? Whatever it is, Duncan and his fear of pain were heard. No bandage was ripped away and no one’s boundaries where pushed. In my war with the moment I didn’t get mean or forceful, I just laughed until I found my patience, my peace and my unending love for this funny little boy who shares my life. God bless children, mad mothers, patient fathers and the tub of Kozy Shake pudding that made everything better in the end.

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