Category Archives: inner child

Ray’s Rays Number 7: Reclaiming Who You Are, by Radiance Angelina Petro

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Ray’s Rays Number 7

Reclaiming Who You Are

by

Radiance Angelina Petro

 

 

 

 

 

Perhaps the string of trauma travels all the way back

to the moment you were born—to that

exact moment when you were lifted

from your mother’s womb,

and the doctor pronounced your gender

based on your body parts, when the doctor

pronounced your health, when your parents

fixed a name upon you making it you

even though perhaps, it wasn’t.

Perhaps the first moment you ever felt

less than, like you’re body was wrong,

like your identity was wrong, like who you were

fundamentally was wrong, was the moment you were born.

Perhaps it all started there and it only threaded its way

up until this very moment.

Perhaps you are still asking who you are.

No matter your age—15 or 97, if the thread

of confusion stretches back through time to the moment

you were born and you were told who you are

without your input, it makes sense not to know now.

Despite their good intentions, they began molding you

while you were still covered with blood and inhaling the burning air,

and didn’t stop—the thread wound its way through your life

tangling the truth of who you inwardly knew yourself to be.

It’s time. Imagine that just-born-being spilling out into YOUR arms.

Imagine you shielding that child from labels, from constructs, even

from names. Imagine allowing that being to choose

their own name through you, and imagine

celebrating and supporting them if they choose

to change their name later in life—even if it’s a hundred times.

Imagine letting them tell you what gender they are—even if that changes

a hundred times over the course of their life. Imagine loving

and celebrating them no matter who they know and say themselves to be.

Imagine you taking charge over this screaming, bloody being.

Imagine cleaning them, imagine, perhaps, nursing them

whether you have breasts or not,

imagine feeding them somehow from your very being.

Turn away to shield the child from anyone who would try to control

or impose their limited, socially constructed ideas onto them.

And then realize: you gave birth to yourself.

You are your own parent. You are your own child,

and you are going to protect that child, yourself

with all the fire and fury of hell itself.

NO ONE will EVER hurt you again.

 

 

 

 

Trauma Returns V, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

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Trauma Returns V

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

There is a way of never reaching out to be held again that is like a tree standing in a spring clearing, never to grow leaves. There is a way of living knowing no arms could ever fill the emptiness you carry that is like walking alone down an endless dusty summer road. There is a way of existing that precludes any sense of being comforted that renders one’s spirit silent, like an empty house.  There are times when pillows become the receivers of the kinds of embraces and tears a scared child should be able to share with a parent, or, in the best-case scenario, a dear friend, or even a stranger who completely understands such ambiguous and deep loneliness. There is a way of moving in the world with such grief and loss, that it’s like having undigested food sitting in one’s guts, and yet, still being hungry night and day. Today, the pillows are once again receiving hugs and the tears that come and go in aching waves, because no one can ever be trusted to hold this grounded falcon, this being of living fog, this feral heart that recoils—thrashing from the offered arms, this darkness that is like living in stone and yet somehow being able to breathe and watch, but never to soften again. All the while longing to be scooped up and rocked, like a nest in the arms of a tree in the light of the moon.

 

 


 



Trauma Returning II, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

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Trauma Returning II

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Is it a longing for the divine that burns just behind every moment and interaction with someone? No, it can’t be. The divine is everywhere I turn and in everyone I see. This soul-loneliness then must just be there, like an underground abandoned and crumbling church lit by a single, ever-burning candle. No matter how it flickers in the winds of sighs and the passing of ghosts, it remains lit—an ever-present reminder of solitary confinement. There are friends aplenty in my life. There are people who love me and whom I love. There are times our voices lift together in praise. There are times laughter fills the room. And yet, the soul-loneliness lives just behind every moment and interaction. Trauma does that. It is a severing of lifelines, a smashing of lifeboats, a drifting away on the sea. This is not to say I am ungrateful for your company. It is to say: that lost look in my eyes is a shadow on the wall of that little candle in that underground church, and nothing, it seems, can ever fill that space with light and singing, community, and warmth. Please, I beg you, don’t ever stop trying. It is your persistence and compassion, and my limited abilities to be present in your presence, that keep me going. And sometimes I can stand in that church and feel triumphant, and maybe even sing in my weeping. Mostly, the soul-loneliness fills me with dust, as the church slowly crumbles. Trauma does that. It defines a perimeter where wounds cannot be reached. And the divine is everywhere. Even in that church. I know that in my mind. Trouble is—all sense of comfort and safety from that holy, living light were stolen, and so the divine feels more like a wind from somewhere far away, trying to make a wish and blow out that little candle. Trauma does that. May the birthday one day come.

 

 

 


 



A Faraway Place, By Jennifer Angelina Petro

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A Faraway Place

For Shannon

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

She nods politely, smiling dutiful smiles at the nurses

As she walks outside into the yard where patients are permitted

To take in some silent sun;

 

She finds the bench she thinks is her favorite—

The one nearest the gate post; she sits, closes her eyes,

Inhales deeply until she grows still as a summer afternoon;

 

Inside she moves from garden to infinite garden, like

A hummingbird—her wings invisible in the honeysuckle atmosphere,

Her memories lifting, one by one, like so many pink petals

From the weeping cherry.

 

Where does the hummingbird go after it startles from the trumpet flower,

And vanishes, like retreating emerald lightning,

Back into the sky?

 

There are difficult questions and difficult answers, except here—

For when she lifts from her body, she will rise, dancing

In the weeping cherry petals letting go into the sun,

And one by one, her memories will return, like so many lost children,

And she will stand among them, arms open, welcoming them home.

 

 

 


 

 

Donations for this post will go to an Alzheimer’s foundation

The Golden Bird and the Tree: A Fable of the Soul and the Ego, by Joseph Anthony

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The Golden Bird and the Tree

A Fable of the Soul and the Ego

By

Joseph Anthony

 

Once upon a
time a golden bird wandered the heavens in search for a place to sing.  Seeing a tree that stood alone in the valley
of the mountains, she flew in for a closer look.  The tree was young, a mere sapling, and since
it was winter, the sapling was sleeping, so it did not notice when the golden bird
alighted in its humble branches pleased to find a home. 

As it slept,
the little tree dreamt, and in its dream, a golden bird descended and made its
home among its branches.   

“Why would
you choose me?” the tree asked the golden bird.

“We chose
each other,” said the golden bird, “and together we will make a bridge between
heaven and earth.”

The tree
shimmered gently and continued sleeping, dreaming it was listening to some
mysterious and radiant singing.

In reality, while
the golden bird had been searching for an earthly place to call home, it had
intended that home to be temporary—a stop along its journey of singing its song
through time and space.  However, the
golden bird decided to make its home among the branches of the tree because it
had, in fact, gotten one of its delicate feet stuck in a tight spot among the
branches, and couldn’t move.  But since it
liked the tree and felt at home there, it decided it would do what it was born
to do: sing.  And it would remain there
until it was no longer tangled with the tree.

The golden
bird sang a tree-song, a song of tree-energy, tree vibrations, tree leanings,
and it enjoyed very much how its voice was informed by the being of the
tree.  Sure it had its own song, but its
song had no overtones or harmonies, it was just pure tones issuing from a most
exquisitely fragile voice.  Now that it
was stuck in the tree, its singing made vibrations in the branches and these
vibrations created echoes, harmonies, and drones of endless variety and timber,
and so it kept singing this new and wonderful song, and felt it had discovered
sides of itself it never knew before.

The golden
bird grew to love that little sleeping tree. 
It appreciated the shelter, the experience of form and boundaries.  It loved the way the tree’s being made her
own song more resonant and deep.  And it
decided it would do whatever it could to protect that little tree and help it
grow to reach its fullest height.

Meanwhile
the tree slept.  It slept and dreamt it
had a golden bird living in its branches and that they had fallen madly in love
with one another.

In the
spring, the tree began to awaken, born into a blue sky dappled with clouds the
shapes of castles.  As the tree grew more
and more awake, it began to enjoy being a tree very much.   It reached and it stretched, it swayed and
it leaned.  It grew green leaves and soft
blossoms and sent deeper and deeper roots rivering through the surrounding
valley. 

Every night,
it slept and it dreamt about the singing, and as it grew, it realized it could
do so many more things than when it was a seed or a sapling.  It was delighted to discover it could cast
its seeds far into the world and that the world would accept them and nestle
them deep into her womb. 

As it grew
even larger and its branches stretched even further, it could touch places even
further away.  It began to want more
light, more space, more sky, and somehow when it dreamt, the song it heard
seemed to tell it that all of its wantings were good—holy, wonderful, meant to
be.  So it wanted more and the
surrounding world gave it more, pouring down rain, sun, and soothing winds.

The tree, in
turn, gave oxygen to the world.  It loved
making this mysterious force, loved how it became one with the wind and felt it
breathe into the sky and how all the creatures around the tree enlivened and
quickened with enthusiasm when new oxygen was produced.

One night, in
a quiet moment in the light of the moon, the tree was not quite asleep and not
quite awake when it heard singing—the same singing it had been hearing in its
dreams.  The tree shimmered.  The sound filled its branches with light.  Every branch and budding leaf quivered with
joy.  The tree listened and listened all
through the night.  It stood there awake,
swaying to the song.  And as the dawn
kissed the night sky and made it blush with the deep presence of its
honey-scented kiss, the tree suddenly realized a golden bird really did live in
its branches, and a shimmering thrill quivered through it from the tips of its
branches down to its gnarled roots. 

The golden
bird sang its song of light and as it sang the tree decided its primary reason
for living was to protect that golden bird. 
Little did it know that the golden bird had the same idea. 

Over time
however, in the tree’s goodness and curiosity of heart, it became a harbor for
many types of chattering creatures, each competing for the best spot in the
tree.  At first the tree didn’t mind all
the noise and activity, but after while all the hustle and bustle began to
distract the tree from its primary purpose, and what was worse, it couldn’t
hear the golden bird as well.

And as much
as the tree loved the golden bird and wanted it to stay forever, it knew it
must have a home somewhere else. 
Perhaps, the tree thought, she had come from a faraway shore or perhaps she
came from another tree, a universal tree crowned with the heavens, one that
draped a canopy of verdant green over all things.  Wherever it came from, it was determined to
not only find the golden bird’s home, but to help it return there. 

The tree
whirled its branches in a wild frenzy, hoping to loosen the bird, but its efforts
had the opposite effect, and the golden bird’s leg only stuck faster in its
spot.  The tree talked incessantly all
day and sometimes all night, creating all sorts of dramas and stories hoping to
help inspire the bird to think up an idea to help free itself.  The tree wanted more and more space with
which to spread its branches further and further hoping if it did the growth
would open the stuck spot and loosen the leg of the golden bird.

Little did
the tree know that if it really had wanted to, the golden bird could have
lifted, leaving its leg behind only to sprout a new one as it flew away, but
the golden bird was so very moved by the tree’s devotion that it stayed.  It stayed and it sang.

Over many
years the tree kept trying to free the bird, but still it could not. It went
mad for the trying and the failing.  It
swooned into a stupor of depression so much so that it began to only focus on
the frenzies of its own talking, and of its own swirling wanting.  It tried so hard to free that golden bird that
it forgot to listen to the her song.  Over
time, it somehow managed, as strange as it seemed, to forget the golden bird
was there, even though it loved her dearly.

To anyone
looking from a distance, it would appear the tree hated the golden bird, that
it was somehow an opposing force trying to harm the golden bird or at very
least drown out its song.  In actuality,
the tree stood in deep devotion to that golden bird, and all of its activities,
as misguided as they appeared to be, were in service of the one who dwelled in
its branches.  Its efforts were, in a
word, holy.

The golden
bird used the magic of its song to transform the efforts of the tree into the
very growth and expansion of the tree. 
The tree grew and learned so many things as it sought to free the bird.  It became a strong and deeply rooted tree,
one whose boughs became a favorite climbing place for the children of the
nearby village.  And the golden bird
looked upon all of the tree’s efforts as those of a highly active and creative
child.  She forgave its every forgetting
and knew that running through its trunk was the thickest blood of the deepest
devotion.

One late
summer afternoon the sky darkened.  An
ominous shiver swept through the leaves of the tree, thunder roiled through the
valley like an invisible wave from an invisible sea.  Within minutes a storm careened off the
surrounding mountains, echoing through the tree sending it spinning in place
like a top, and had it not been for its roots, it would have twisted out of the
ground and tumbled away.

In the midst
of the storm the tree suddenly heard and remembered the singing of the golden
bird, and it stood up as tall as it could reach, stretching and unfolding its
branches as high as they could go hoping to simply hoist that bird back into
heaven.  The tree wept its leaves into
the wind as the rain pelted down.  It
tried to heave itself upwards, lifting itself from the earth, but its roots
were attached too deeply in earth.

And still
the storm raged.  And still the bird
sang.  And through the wind and rain, the
thunder and the cooling air, the tree loved that singing with such a love that
the world could not, and indeed would never fully understand.  How could it be that such an unlikely pair
could create such a partnership of such breadth and such harmony.

In their
time together they had done just as the golden bird told the tree they would in
its dream from long ago:  they had created
a bridge between heaven and earth.  The
golden bird wanted a place to settle and sing, and that she got.   The tree wanted to grow and to delight in
the world, and that it got.  And the
golden bird grew to love the tree, and the tree grew to love the golden bird
and they both desired to protect the other. However, only the golden bird knew
the truth of the inevitable.

And in the
distance, the golden bird saw the lightning. 
She saw it splitting the sky and lighting up the village and the
valley.  She tried to warn the tree, tell
it to look out and be careful, to bend out of the way, to stop reaching so
high, but she knew the tree was rooted to its own personal earth, and that
ultimately she could do nothing to save it. 
So she did what the tree loved most: she sang.   

She sang a song
of sky and of blossoming horizons.  With
every note the golden bird draped shawls of light over the branches of the
tree.  It garlanded the tree with
dazzling strings of musical fireflies that bobbed and danced in the storm
lashed branches.  She sang hoping to
guide that tree safely through another season. 
She sang even though she felt her foot loosening from the spot that had
held her there for so long.  She sang as
the storm trampled through the sky and gathered directly over the tree.

And just
before the lightning touched the tree with its terrible, sudden stroke, tearing
it asunder and blasting it to pieces, the tree knew the way to free the golden
bird.  Instead of doing all of the things
it had been trying to do—all of those things that actually created tension and
more tightness within itself, it suddenly knew to pause, to breathe, and to be
still.  And as it relaxed, a song began
to rise like a river up through its roots, and up through its entire
being.  As the song rose, it gathered
earth and moisture, and these flowed into its song, giving it strength and
power.  And when the song reached the
branch of the golden bird, it struck the bird with such joy, such sweet and
undying devotion that the bird wept, it wept into the sky with tears that
rained down upon the tree in a baptism of the most fierce and tender love.  And their songs merged becoming one song,
rising and streaming into the heavens directly up through the lightning bolt
that struck the tree, and into the very heart of the Divine Itself, and together,
for a moment that held the entirety of eternity, that tree and that golden bird
sang, not as opposites on some mysterious, little known scale of misunderstood music,
but as one—one song of All Life, All Love, and of All Unending Joy. 


Thank you for your kind contributions to the continuing work 

of the Wonder Child Blog.   





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

On the Rebirth of Innocence, A Christmas Meditation

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I wrote this last year around this time and was inspired to share it again today.  May it help fill you with hope and joy.

–Joseph


On the Rebirth of Innocence

A Christmas Meditation

by

Joseph Anthony

Everyone has
things happen to them that shouldn’t happen. 
Everyone carries wounds within their very cells.  This being said, everyone also has things happen
to them that should happen.  Everyone carries healing and purity within
their cells. Both leave imprints on the soul and the cells of the body.

Learn to
slowly integrate both into your life.

What?  Integrate pain?  That’s crazy. 
Except that every human life experiences pain—emotional, mental, and
physical.  Of course, it’s good to avoid
the unnecessary manufacture of pain and to not put one’s hand on a hot
stove.  However, we cannot avoid pain completely.  So when it comes, learn, within reason, to
feel it, especially the emotional and mental varieties.  All pain is a messenger.

I was asked
recently how often I moved towards the pain—the emotional pain.  I replied that most days the pain moves
towards me.  It’s safe to do that now.  Once not too long ago the pain wasn’t welcome;
I treated it like a monster, an outcast, a pariah.  Now it knows I will give it a place to spend
the night.  I will listen to it, sit with
it, and move towards it with intent to honor and ultimately transform it
through the very act of listening and embracing it.  It can be itself while knowing, its heart of
heart is love—protection—the desire to be whole.

The same is
true for healing.  It is safe to flow
towards me and from me.  It is welcome in
my heart, body, and soul.  I am learning
to open my arms to healing, to sit with it, listen to it and transform it into
anything it needs to be.  It can be
itself, even as it manifests itself as music, poetry, nature, the touch of a
friend, the smile of a child, you.

How does one
open their heart to healing?  Can
innocence really be reclaimed, reborn, rediscovered?  Is it ever completely lost?  Does it ever completely die?  Can it ever truly be stolen? And if it can be
reborn, how does one make room inside for that to happen? 

Keep in mind
the roots of the word: innocence is
related to the word noxious, and thus
means not-noxious, not harmful, not poison, and not sick (online etymology
dictionary).  This being the case
innocence can certainly be born again in our lives, indeed, it must be.  Our very bodies are equipped with healing
cells.  The same is true for the heart
and the soul.  We are all born with the
white blood cells of spirit and joy.

To be
specific, here, in a nutshell are some suggestions for allowing innocence to be
reborn within you:

Learn to
embrace your sorrow and pain.

Learn to
stop doing things that harm yourself and others.

Learn to
forgive others and yourself.

Learn to
seek forgiveness and repair anything you have broken.

Learn, with the
help and guidance of mentors, trusted friends, and therapists, to find
direction in your life.

Learn to
breathe fully.

Learn to be
in the moment—every moment.

Learn to
love yourself—your body, your own unique ways of thinking and praying and being.

Learn to be open to and to integrate healing modalities such as EFT into your life.

Learn to
play.

Learn to
sing.

There are
other things as well.  And while I think
the ultimate journey towards innocence involves unique moments of pain and
darkness for everyone in one way or another, everyone’s path also involves
unique moments of healing and revelation.

Know that
the worse you feel (even if you feel down and out right now), the more you are able to sit with the pain, the more
your life has been reduced to spiritual poverty, where your animal instincts
are crowding around your life, there is another part of you, a union of quiet
strength and willingness; a union of intuition and openness; a union of dreams
and passion, that is seeking your heart, your very own dingy, broken heart to
give birth to innocence.  It is looking
for a “house of bread.”  And it is guided
by both the star of your dreams and the light of your wounds.  And when you have humbled yourself or life
humbles you, know that innocence will be born again inside you.  It is seeking a place, daily, hourly, ever
more, to find a safe place to be born. And when it finds the manger of your
heart, open the doors, let the night winds swirl and dance, let those same
clumsy animals gather round for the body is beautiful, let those who shepherd innocence come near, and lo, let the Wonder Child be born anew.  Let the gift of the birth of your Divine
Innocence be adored, be praised, be showered
with treasure. Let that innocence rise and celebrate who you really are—your gifts
and talents.  Share them with the world,
help others, inspire others, nourish others with the Bread of Life growing within
you, and you will truly experience the rebirth of innocence–Divine innocence,
Holy innocence.  And your life and the
lives of those around you will truly help save the world.

Happy Holidays

from Joseph Anthony

at

The Wonder Child Blog





Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

On the Building and Tearing Down of Walls, Part Two of Two, By Joseph Anthony

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On the Building and Tearing Down of Walls

Part Two of Two

By

Joseph Anthony

 

 

We talked
last time on building and tearing down inner walls.  We spoke of these walls as stemming from the
wisdom and creativity of children.  What
happens though when we feel like we’re too cramped or need to make some sort of
change?  Here is one way of transforming,
coming out of, and inviting others into your inner paradise.

Gradually.  Begin by clearing out the space of unwanted
and unhealthy clutter: thoughts of self-hatred, shame, arrogance; and start
bringing in thoughts you want to live with: joy, gratitude, generosity,
love.  Add a window or two.  Open them. 
Let the fresh air and light in from mentors and friends.  Build a door—a beautiful, hand carved,
wood-hewn door—perhaps a non-traditional—round-Hobbit door; maybe a triangular
door, or one shaped like a star.  You
pick.  Whatever shape you pick, remember
this: these door opens from the inside. 

Begin adding
art work—beautiful visions and pictures of your dreams and aspirations; vision boards; scenes
of nature, mornings, mountains, trees.  Keep
happy memories tucked away in special places. 
Add a few knick-knack—curious, quirky things that will become your
unique personality traits.  Have a few,
well-chosen books (everyone has at least one book in them).  Bring in some candles or beautiful lamps,
soft blankets, clean bed sheets, flowers, healthy food, clean water.  You decide what these symbolize for you.  I like to think of the healthy food as
positive affirmations, the clean water as living and bathing in the truth, and
so on.

When you’re
ready, open the windows and let the light in; or open the windows at night and
let the fireflies in and the soft gaze of the moon.  Either way, let the fresh air of new ideas in.
Lean on the sill and breathe, gazing at the beauty—imagining the possibilities. 

And when you’re
ready, open the door.  Stand at the
threshold for as long as you need to, and then step out.  When you’re ready invite safe, friendly
people inside to talk with (living or dead), host dinner parties, sing-alongs, or
reading groups.  You get to decide who
and when and how.  You might even invite
people in to make love with.

And yes, you
might get hurt.  You might open the door,
come dancing out, and stub your toe on something someone left lying around
outside—a worn-out  limited belief or a
rusty, old idea.  Some one might say
something mean, break a promise, and so on. 
It is difficult to shield ourselves from all pain. 

When we get
hurt however, we have a safe, healthy, clean, and holy place to go.  We will have a well-stocked medicine cabinet
filled with the healing balms of mantras, prayers, and songs; we will have
ready the elixirs of positive affirmations and creative pursuits; we will have
the healing cures of physical movement—tapping, walking, drumming.  We will have the secret remedies of the prayers
of other people—keep a stash of these treasured somewhere in your space and
replenish them often.  Keep a supply of
the antidote for fear: actions.  Feel the fear and keep moving.  Feel all of your feelings, honor the pain and
its messages of healing; honor your feelings by simply knowing them to be what
they are—feelings—neither mysterious
nor the end all and be all of who you are.

So build
your walls, create fragrant, holy, beautiful spaces—temples of wisdom and love.  Tend the gardens of your body, mind, heart,
and soul.  Know that you can use any of
these as safe places.  Each is inherently
and irrevocably a paradise.  Know too
that you get to choose who comes in.  You
get to open the door.  Lots of people
might come knocking, but only you have the power of opening the door.  And you can stay outside or inside for as
long as you like.

One last
thing: remember to honor your inner child for starting the process of building
a wall in the first place—a process
inspired by play.  All wisdom is
play, and all play is wisdom.  Connect
with that child with gratitude, express that appreciation by affirming him or
her; and you can express that appreciation for your inner child (or children)
too by appreciating and honoring the children you see around you—your own
children, your students, your nieces, nephews, grandchildren, or the children
in your neighborhood or on the train.  Take
a cue from these children: learn to have fun inside and out, and come out and
go in when you see fit.  Learn that
whatever else this wild, complicated life is, it is play—serious sometimes
perhaps, tragic, but it is play.  It is a
dance of wonder and of discovery.  It is
the play of becoming who you are.

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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

On the Building and Tearing Down of Walls, Part One of Two, By Joseph Anthony

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On the Building and Tearing Down of Walls

Part One of Two

By

Joseph Anthony

 

People build
walls when they need a safe place to live. 
Animals build shelters for the same reason.  Some say we build psychological/spiritual
walls after we’ve been hurt or betrayed. 
Some say the thing to do once we’re emotionally and spiritually mature
is to tear down these walls.  Some people
believe they build walls and never come out, they’re too afraid; they always
stay in. 

My take on
walls is different.  I believe building
walls is wisdom in action.  I believe we
build walls when we’re children not because we’ve been hurt, we build them
before we’re hurt—we build them out of play. 
Give a child a cloth, a bed sheet, a large piece of silk and watch them almost
instantly build a fort or wrap it around themselves.  Watch them transform the space underneath a
table or in a closet, in a tree—almost anywhere—into a safe, magical
place.  Teens even love their own
space. 

In other
words I believe building walls is natural, creative, holy, and necessary.  Inner stress comes when we go inside and have
trouble coming back out, or when we are unable to invite people in, or when we
outgrow the space and don’t make proper renovations, or we don’t tend the space
and it becomes cramped, isolated, filled with shadows.  As this happens over time, our inner space can become unhealthy and we in fact do need to come out
or let people in to help us clean. 
Perhaps we sense our inner space has become too confining, restricted, or
narrow.  It’s now that someone might
suggest to us that it’s time to tear the walls down.  And there are some of us who need that type
of violent gesture to free ourselves and feel empowered.  That’s OK. The walls came tumbling down in
Jericho after all (with the power of commitment and music, no less).

And if you
find yourself telling yourself (and others) that you never come out or you
always stay in your wall and that you can’t come out, know that words like always, never, and can’t, are
simply not true.  If you had never come
out of your wall you wouldn’t know to even want to.  Anytime you genuinely laughed—you were
outside the wall.  Any time you wept in
front of someone you were outside the wall (or you had invited them inside).  So you can
come out.  The way might be cluttered,
but you can, if you choose.

I suggest a
gentle approach to walls—in building and transforming them, and choosing when
to come out or let others in.  It is an
approach infused with the overarching idea that the wall was built in the first
place for a reason, a holy, and healthy reason. 
It was built out of the spirit of play and to keep ourselves safe. Know
that the word paradise means a walled
garden—a safe, beautiful place surrounded by a wall.  Did we use our paradise as a place to hide
and to withdrawal from painful people and situations?  I hope so. 
Did some of us become addicted to the inner space, the isolation?  Did some of us neglect our inner gardens and
let them become over grown with weeds?  Yes.
We all do to one degree or another and at one time or another. But when we know
it’s time to move out or let others in, there is a way to do so that honors
both your wisdom for building it in the first place and the wall itself.  And I will share my thoughts on this process on
Wednesday. 

For now, be
with the idea that inside of you is a paradise.  That’s a wonderful idea indeed.

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Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

On the Value of Making Mistakes, A Little Poem to Help Overcome Perfectionism

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On the
Value of Making Mistakes

By

Joseph
Anthony

 

Dear Wonder
Child Blog Readers,

What follows
is a little poem I originally wrote 16 years ago for one of my first grade
students who would cry every time she made a mistake in her drawing books.  Since that time I have taught it to every
student I have taught—from first grade through 8th.  Whenever one of my students says, “Oh, no, I
messed up,” I say, “Spilled milk is a mess, my dear, you just made a
mistake.”  And then I start reciting this
poem. 

No matter
what age you are, if you have trouble accepting yourself for making mistakes,
if you think you have to be perfect in everything you do, if you don’t allow
yourself the freedom and dignity to make mistakes, this poem is for you.  Memorize it, post it wherever it might help
you or someone else you love to remember that it is not only OK to make
mistakes, it’s part of the journey, it means you’re up and doing, taking
healthy risks. 

So have fun,
make mistakes, and remember your wonderfulness when you do.

Peace and
Light,

Joseph

 

Kings
and Queens

By Joseph
Anthony

 

Kings
and Queens can never grow,

Without
mistakes to use as guides,

They
help us know the way to go,

And
gold within their heart resides.


 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Green Man and the Holy Child, A Story for Earth Day 2013

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 I first published this story almost two years ago.  In honor of Earth Day 2013, I am republishing it again with a few minor alterations.  Enjoy, and Happy Earth Day!


Green Man and the Holy Child

by

Joseph Anthony

The Little Girl leaned in close staring at the mass of upturned earth and roots that had formed at the base of the fallen birch.  There it was: a face; a man’s face, green-hued, eyes closed, sunken deep into the vast system of roots, soil, and lichen.  She looked at the face for several minutes, both fascinated and horrified (more fascinated than horrified though).  She studied it; wondering just how it got there.  And when he suddenly opened his eyes she fell backwards into the ferns.  And when a moss covered arm stretched towards her, she screamed.  And when he spoke, sending bits of earth and lichen scattering into the air, she couldn’t believe her ears.

 

“Please,” he whispered, his voice soaked with earth and shadows, “I mean you no harm.  Our world will be doomed if you do not come.”

She stepped closer searching his gold-flecked eyes.  They were ancient and filled with a sorrow so visible it cut right through her fear and went straight to her heart.

 

“Why do you need me?” she asked.

 

“You know about circles,” he smiled, little white moths fluttering from his mouth as he spoke.  “You are careful where you walk.  You touch with your eyes and hands with reverence and kindness.  You give my people secret names and run your fingers through the tops of the ferns like your mother running her hands through your hair.  I’ have heard you telling stories to the salamanders and to the stones in the creek.  I heard you use foul language when you found the pile of beer bottles and fast food wrappers by the pond.  I saw you carry the trash home.  And,” he said, lowering his voice, looking into her eyes with a smile, “my bride saw you lay your hands on the wounded deer and heal him.”  The Girl blushed.  

 

“OK,” she said, “but that doesn’t answer my question.  Why is your world doomed?  And who are you?”

 

“Forgive me, I am Green Man, Father of the Earth.  And I misspoke a moment ago.  I should have said, “OUR worlds will be doomed if you do not come.”

 

“But why?” she said, almost shouting, “Why will they be doomed?”

 

“Disillusionment,” he said with bits of leaves falling from his lips.  “There are so few in my world who believe in your kind anymore–so much destruction, poisoning, and senseless ravaging.  There are many in my world who want to destroy your race.  But they don’t understand the circles like you and I.   And so I thought you could teach them.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes.  They hardly listen to me anymore.  So I thought if they heard about the circles from one of your kind—one they can trust—then perhaps they would reconsider their plan of destruction.  Besides, my bride, the Green Woman, or, as you call her, Mother Earth, thinks it’s a good idea.  After she saw that deer spring back to its legs and bound away into the woods, she told me if anyone could save us—it would be you.”

 

The Little Girl closed her eyes for several minutes.  The woods hushed to hear her reply.  She knew what she would do.  She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and then reached out placing her hand in his.  She half expected his arm to crumble like a rotting log, but instead it was strong and powerful.  He smiled and she noticed tears forming in the corners of his eyes like dew forming in the grass.

 

“Now what?” she asked.

 

“We go in,” said Green Man, “this is a door.”

 

“Will it hurt going through? It looks so crowded.”

 

“No child, the door will widen for you.  It will not hurt.  Tickle perhaps, maybe a few little scratches, but nothing serious.” 

 

“Shall we?” He asked.

 

She nodded and then he pulled her through the roots and earth.  She felt sticks and cool, moist dirt pass through her.  A few twigs got stuck in her hair and more than one stone bumped her sides.  The finer roots combed through her body and her soul, removing any last doubts she may have had about herself.

 

When they arrived on the other side she saw a world of brilliant green infused with golden hues.  There were eyes everywhere—every leaf, flower, tree, rock had eyes.  All of them watched her curiously.  Most looked suspicious.  Some filled with tears when they saw her.

 

As they walked hand in hand she saw Green Man’s full body for the first time.  It was completely draped in moss and leaves.  It trailed vines and clumps of earth and stood over 9 feet tall.  His arms and legs were covered with lichen and sticks, leaves and bits of white, curling bark.  His hair was one big mass of ferns and his back was dotted with mushrooms.  She smiled and somehow felt safer than she had ever felt before.

 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

 

“To the council,” he said, stopping suddenly.  Someone was running towards them.

 

“My bride,” he shouted, “what is it?”

 

“It’s begun,” Green Woman said, her voice trembling.

 

“What?!” Green Man shouted, “I was not there for the final vote!”

 

“The council did not want to wait for your return.” Green Woman said.  “They did not think she would come.”  The Green Woman looked down at the Little Girl with eyes dark as night.  “But I knew she would.”

 

The Little Girl looked up and felt as if she were looking into Mother Nature Herself, which indeed she was.

 

Green Woman looked a little like her groom, only her hair was studded with morning glories and her dress of vines and leaves flowed like an elegant river of a thousand shades of rippling green.

 

“We must hurry,” said Green Man.

 

“Is it too late?” the Little Girl said.

 

“There is no such thing as too late,” Green Man said, “nonetheless, we must hurry.”

 

 He swept down and lifted the Little Girl onto his shoulders.  She felt as if she were riding a walking tree.

 

They ran along the grass covered street.  Flowers and trees ran after them on their legs of roots.  Rocks tucked their faces in and began rolling along side them.  Frogs, toads, deer, bears, and many other animals followed with them.  When the Little Girl looked behind them she even saw a river flowing towards them with fish leaping in and out of the water as it moved.

 

Meanwhile, back in the Little Girl’s world, trees were snatching unsuspecting hikers and hurtling them down mountains or devouring them instantly in gaping mouths.  The ground was opening beneath the boots of loggers.  Roots with inescapable grasps were grabbing the ankles of fishermen standing along the riverbanks.  Backyards with swing sets and swimming pools suddenly disappeared in massive sink holes.  Entire rows of houses lifted, heaved, and feel backwards into the waiting crunching mouths.  Storms ignited over lakes and golf courses, sending lighting’s death-inducing fingers crawling everywhere like electric spiders.  Within minutes thousands world over were gone.

 

Green Man burst open the doors of the council.

 

“How dare you!” He shouted.  “How dare you dishonor me by acting without my voice!  I demand you stop the destruction at once and hear my witness!”

 

The room was filled with enormous mushrooms and trees—all with staring eyes.  Some of the members bent over scratching crooked letters in tablets of stone. 

 

And when the council saw the Girl it fell silent.  She scrambled down Green Man, brushed herself off and walked confidently into the center of the room. She looked back where Green Man and Green Woman stood.  They nodded.  She bent down and all eyes followed her as she lifted a small stone the size of an almond to her face and whispered something to it.  “Thank you,” she said to the stone and then stood up, and to the amazement of the council members, walked behind their chairs and began drawing on the smooth, hard wood floor. 

 

“Is this OK?” She asked the floor.

 

“Yes,” it whispered like a snake, “Yesss.”

 

Slowly and carefully she inscribed a huge circle around them all.  And when she was finished she stood and turned, looking each council member in the eye.

 

“You are blind,” she began, “for every one of my kind that you remove, you lose one tree, flower, or stone.  And my people are just as blind.  For every tree we remove, a person somewhere, someplace, dies.  And so it ever shall be.  You see,” she continued, gaining momentum and strength as she felt Green Man and Green Woman watching her, “we were spoken from the same Word.  The same Word that sang you sang us.  We are formed from the same soil and when the Creator breathed Spirit into us, He breathed Spirit into you.  We are bound with unbreakable bonds.  And so I say again, if you destroy us, you destroy yourselves.”

 

She paused looking around the great room, and before anyone could respond to what she had just said, she started again.

 

“The opposite is also true.  When one of my kind plants a tree or a flower, one of my kind is born in some other part of the world.  When one of my kind is born one of your kind blossoms or hatches from a seed.”

 

“Is all of this true?” interrupted one of the members, “why were we not informed?”

 

“It is.” She replied, “and you were informed.  You knew.  Everyone and everything knows we are connected.  It is just so many of us refuse to believe it.” 

 

Just then the doors to the council room were thrown open and in strode an army of silver and white birch trees, each one carrying a dead tree in its giant branches. 

 

The council members rose and gasped. 

 

One of the birches held a dead sapling, and cried, “Stop the destruction!  For every one of the humans we destroy one of our kind falls.”

 

“So it’s true,” whispered the council. 

 

And as the council members erupted into loud discussions, the Little Girl began walking from dead tree to dead tree, touching their petrified faces.  One by one the dead trees rose up verdant green.  Each one she healed bowed to her and began forming a circle around her.  The council fell silent as they watched her resurrect the fallen trees.  She laughed as the trees entwined their branches and began dancing in a great circle of green around her.  The spruce trees began playing violins that they formed instantly from their own branches.  The bamboo trees kept time clapping their hands like claves.  The rivers flowed around them in rhythm to the music.  All of the animals joined in.  Green Man and Green Woman joined hands and spun around sending twigs and leaves and butterflies sailing around the room.  And the council rose as one and sent word to all corners of the earth to stop the destruction.  It also sent out all the rivers to begin flowing backwards until time turned back to just before the destruction began restoring everything and everyone to its proper, living place.

 

And while there was still work to be done, much progress was made that day by Green Man, his bride, and a Little Girl who knew a great deal about circles.


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog