I’ve not had a great week. I’ve been plagued with sciatic pain for most of it, and I feel exhausted and worn down.
Maybe it’s the weather. Or maybe it’s just that the journey feels too long and never-ending. Or maybe there is no reason.
What I do know is that I don’t have Fibromyalgia, but I probably do have Complex PTSD. And I know that this goes back to the very start of my life, and I’ve no idea if it’s healable.
I know, too, that I need to be open-minded – to ask the universe what is possible now. But I have been betrayed by hope too many times, and it feels safer to shut down and close my heart to it.
Yet all these things – hope, defeat, or possibility – are just variations on the stories I could, or do, tell myself.
Stories like the one I told my daughter today as her father emptied out the rain-and-leaf-filled paddling pool with a large saucepan to save us from drowning the lawn.
I told my daughter about Red Leaf Soup that is an Autumn speciality. I explained – not that she could understand, but it seemed to make me happier – that the leaves needed to be taken at just the right time for maximum goodness and nutritional value and that the remains of dead snails (also in the pool sadly) added to this value. I told her that Red Leaf Soup is a very special soup.
And so the chore of emptying out the paddling pool – albeit carried out by my husband – became just a little bit more magical and fun-filled.
And, just like Red Leaf Autumn Soup, I suspect that if I could tell myself the right story right now, I wouldn’t feel quite so worn down. Because maybe the magic in life lies in how you tell the story – not just what it is.
Meanwhile, though I may never ever enjoy the taste of Red Leaf Soup in real life, I’m letting just the thought of it add a little sparkle to this grey, wet day.
New mum, old soul... Finding beauty, wisdom, spirituality, and opportunities for learning in the everyday (hopefully)...