Listen to Joshua

Childhood wounding. Core wound. Inner child healing. Sounds so daunting to some, I am sure. To others, the idea is probably easily dismissed even…..because “Oh, I had a perfect childhood.” Trauma looks different for everyone. 

This morning, while at the beach, a family of six appeared next to me. It looked like a grandmother, mother, father and three brothers ranging from 9 to 14. Quickly, dynamics began to emerge as Joshua, the middle child, started screaming at his dad. Joshua was threatened with screams back and things like, “you’re gonna regret that decision” and “if you go over that dune, you lose electronics for a whole month”.  My husband gets annoyed at screaming kids and loud speaking adults, and usually I do too, but this time was different. 

Joshua wanted to be heard. All he wanted was for someone to listen to him. Joshua has wanted this his entire young life and is still not getting it from those he needs it from most-his parents.  Joshua was directing most of his comments to his dad and saying, “You never listen to me”, “You always blame me”, You don’t care what I have to say, it’s always automatically my fault”. Instead of being annoyed or angry, I felt sad and had an immediate desire to help and to LISTEN to this boy. So I focused and tuned into his energy. I told him who I was and taught him how to focus on his breathing. He corrected me that the man was not his father and that is when the light bulb went off. Within two minutes, Joshua had calmed down and the man had walked to the ocean and stopped escalating the situation. There was not a peep out of sweet Joshua for the next two hours. I listened and I gave him a physical way to calm down through his breath.

Joshua wanted to be heard. Joshua needed someone to listen. Joshua did not respond well to be yelled at. I wanted so badly to go to him and hug him and tell him he was safe with me and could tell me anything. Instead, I surrounded him in love and sent calm strength from a distance.

It is not until we are eight years old that our conscious minds are formed. What does that mean? Our subconscious minds are running the show. From 0 to 7, we are like sponges that soak up everything we hear, see, feel…. as fact. We don’t have the ability to process right or wrong. What happens, what we are told, how we are treated….by family members, teachers, doctors, that kid in class, neighbors… serve as programming. By the time year eight comes around, the “damage” has been done. It takes years, sometimes our entire adult lives, to heal from these triggers. We all have one core wound that occurred between the ages of 0 and 7 and it will affect us our entire life until we are aware of it and address it. Yes, even you.

I saw and felt all of this through Joshua today. All he wants is for someone to listen to him; to feel like what he thinks and feels matters. Since this man is not his dad, most likely his core wound comes from an experience with his dad and this new man is a trigger. Joshua will continue to encounter these triggers year after year in different forms. I hope he gets the help he needs to see that this is not his fault and to overcome this wound before it manifests into something worse. If not, he will start behaving in negative ways to get that attention and to MAKE people listen to him. HE will hurt him self and others. 

Listen to your children. Don’t blow off their behavior as being attributed to their adolescence, or temper tantrums, or “oh, that’s just how they are”. There is ALWAYS  a reason why. The key is to care enough to want to understand. If your children are under the age of 7, pay special attention to what they are absorbing because they are  little sponges soaking up EVERY single thing. They may not react to something but, believe me, they ARE being affected. 

Childhood wounding is real. I didn’t uncover my core wound until I was over 40 and it occurred when I was four. As a result, I can trace back numerous triggers throughout my life that are so obvious now. I did a lot of forgiveness work and don’t blame anyone because no one knew about core wounds then. We do now, so there are no excuses. If you are an adult, let’s talk about it. If you are an adult with a child, talk to them about it now. If you have young babies, be very cognizant of what they are hearing, seeing and experiencing. Talk to them. The biggest misconception is that kids aren’t old enough to understand and that is complete bullshit. Their souls have been through lifetimes of this and are willing to tell you if you stay open and LISTEN!

Longing

 I learned to walk here. I learned what true family meant here. I learned that you don’t have to be blood or share the same last name to be that family. I learned that the river and bay can be just as magical as the ocean. I learned that you can survive summer heat with rickety old standup fans. I learned how to drive a stick shift here. I learned that true love and heartache can exist in the same person. I learned how to catch, pick and love blue crabs with a passion. I learned that small town life can be enjoyable and safe. I learned that listening to good music and front porch sitting are simple daily pleasures. I learned that a 17 yo driving her daddy’s pickup truck in this town had the whole world at her fingertips. I learned that shoes were not mandatory in life.  I learned that late nights playing card games with 10 plus adults when I was a kid would be priceless when I turned 45. I learned burying my goldfish under that tree was necessary. I learned knowing everyone who lived on your sleepy street was invaluable. I learned the beauty of walking barefoot in the garden and picking string beans after a summer rain. I learned the generosity of a neighbor farmer leaving homegrown tomatoes and corn on your patio table every week. I learned how crucial solitude can be. I learned how to appreciate what is for what it is because one day it may not be any longer.

It’s been almost 50 years that I’ve been coming to this town on the Potomac River. My maternal grandparents used to come here from Alexandria by boat in its heyday. I always cherished their stories and photos but I never really appreciated this town when I was a kid, a teenager or even a young adult. Now I do and the catalyst is because of how it has changed.  The majority of those wonderful people who used to love the Playground on the Potomac and who I would spend every weekend from Memorial Day to Labor Day with are gone.  Skippy, Dickie, Buddy, Wormy, Helen, Eggy, Big John, Granddad, Grandmother, Pap, Grandma, Lil, Bobbie, Edna #1, Edna #2, Irma, Scotty, Stevie, Dad, the list goes on. They are still spiritually here in many ways but it’s not the same.

This town isn’t the same either. Reno Hill, cruising on Saturday nights, the Ferris Wheel, Hops, that place that sold the best square pizza and round steak and cheese, Ben Franklin, my secret staired hideaway to the river, Howdy Doody #1 and #2, playing cards on the back porch singing along while he would play the table drum, watching him making highballs for the ladies, finally being old enough to make Bacardi and cokes for myself, helping each other win card games when others weren’t looking, sleeping on the screened-in back porch, homegrown tomatoes and fresh corn on the cob on the dinner table, a bushel every Saturday night and then crab cakes for days, cookouts, hanging out under the back tree or in the pool as the only relief from the heat, lightning bugs, flirting with the summer help at Halls, piling in the back of the truck for a ride to the Point, fishing off the sandbags, watching her sit alone in the rocking chair missing him something fierce and rarely smiling, friends showing up in the backyard and walking right in, the memories go on.

I’m beyond grateful to have had open fields on all three sides of this property since it became ours in 1981…..until last year.  Now, my natural open lot with an uninterrupted view of the sky and a glimpse of the river is obscured my three houses. The fields that used to be vegetable and flower gardens where I would watch birds and dragonflies and bunnies play are replaced by homes. The crepe myrtles that were barely taller than me at 8 years old and now are mature gorgeous bushes will soon be destroyed. The local fresh seafood markets and restaurants have been replaced by Mexican and Thai places. The pizza places are gone except for one chain. There are two breweries now which is a welcome nicety but parking meters have taken over everywhere. Houses are being erected in every possible green space. 

It’s not the same anymore. But things always change, I suppose. 

As I sit here pondering all these changes and longing for times gone by, I have to ask myself what is it that I am really missing? It’s the people. My people. 

They are what made this town my second home.  They are the real reason for my melancholy feeling toward what used to be one of his and my favorite places. No one really understood that feeling but us. And now it’s just me being misunderstood again, just like that younger me. I’m grateful for what it was but will forever long for it to be that way again.

Wearing my heart on my skin

I always admired and was intrigued by tattoos. I always desired to have ink on my skin but always said there was nothing I could imagine wanting on my body for the rest of my life. Perhaps in my 20s I would desire one thing but in my 80s that would not be the same want any longer. Tattoos are permanent and I wasn’t taking this endeavor lightly. Little did I know that would all change in October 2015.

I had the itch, the craving, the want for a tattoo. It was a feeling I had never felt before. I still wasn’t sure exactly what it would be but I did know a few things. I wanted words/letters. I wanted it to be on my inner left wrist. I wanted it to be meaningful and unique to me. I wanted it to honor my grandmother who had transitioned in 2013. Months went by and I was consumed with thoughts and ideas but no decision yet. I knew when the time was right, I would know and it would happen.

As I made the hour drive to Chantilly for a medium session, I started to talk to my grandmother, as I always did on the way to sessions. I asked her to please give me some sort of inspiration for my tattoo design. During the lengthy session, my grandmother did come through along with a few others. As she was validating info about my current romantic relationship, she made the statement, “There are no coincidences.” That’s when it hit me. Though she did not come out and say, “Here’s your tattoo, toots” I knew exactly what to do.  My heart was overjoyed and tears rolled down my smiling face. On the drive home, it all became clear. An acronym with the letter “t” formed as a cross and the other three letters in my grandmother’s handwriting. Next I would search through cards and documents of hers to get those three letters and arrange them. My favorite guy (who is now my beloved Hubs) had a tattoo he wanted done so we made joint appointments and off we went to Jack Brown’s Tattoo Revival in Fredericksburg, VA a few months later.

My first tattoo is simple to the general public but those four letters are a constant and permanent reminder of my grandmother, our unconditional bond and shared faith. There are no coincidences, or tanc, has become my motto and at the time I had no idea of its true purpose in my soul’s journey.  But as always, Grandmother did. https://winefoodie.blogspot.com/2015/10/my-permanent-reminder.html

What is it about tattoos that once you get one you must have another? I always heard that but never understood it until I got inked. I wasn’t gonna run out and be crazy though. I wanted another but it had to fit the parameters-unique to me and meaningful. When the time was right…..

After my dad transitioned in 2017, I got the nudge again. Oddly enough, Dad never wanted me to get a tattoo. It was an old school, conservative thing in his mind. Why would a pretty girl do something like that to herself? Oh Dad……

In February 2018, three years later, I got my second tattoo…….in memory/honor of my dad. This time another set of words in e.e. cummings style with a tiny heart to serve as a reminder of my plus one, the man who loved me first and best. It was with the creation of this tattoo, that I met “my” tattoo artist. Everyone has the artist they love to work with and gain that connection. I didn’t know it then but after two more AJ masterpieces, I gratefully do.

That same year, AJ created the piece that made me deem him as my “magic man”. I always wanted a dragonfly but I wanted it to be big, with specific colors and placed to represent her always “having my back” and serving as my supporter, encourager and the epitome of graceful strength. The most important “must” was that it look realistic and AJ blew me away when he showed me what he created specifically for me. He told me of the story while sitting outside behind the shop- a dragonfly landed on the picnic table and he drew my tattoo. AJ was “tanc’d” and had no idea, but she and I knew and THAT was the real beauty. 

Up to this point, I had only had powerful letters/words tattooed on my arms and the time spent to have them done was minimal. This dragonfly would prove to be a major undertaking for me -two sittings of hours at a time, color, shading, lots of intricate line work, and on some areas of bone (that was super fun).  Often I will get asked, “Didn’t that hurt?” It wasn’t necessarily pleasurable all the time but it was worth it. Each tattoo I have is in memory of someone who had a huge impact on my life and who went through enormous pain during the end stages of their human life. So I have nothing to bitch about in comparison to what their bodies endured and I relive those moments with every session. It’s almost as if they have a final release from that pain as I take it from them and transcend it.

Two years later, in November 2020, my most recent tattoo began and it was by far the most, let’s say, “physically sensitive” one. Three hours of being uncomfortable, sometimes in actual physical pain, I was not surprised that this one ran deep. When I walked into the shop and saw his paws displayed on the stand as AJ’s guide, tears began to roll and I clearly heard, “Hey! Those are mine! My feet!” My protector, my best friend, Prowler, stood guard at my side the entire session often wanting AJ to stop “hurting me”. When I left that day and gingerly got into my car, the time on the clock added up to six; the number that represents my boy. I had wanted him to be ok with his crossed paws on my thigh and it was then that I received the approval I needed. Yesterday, three months later, AJ completed his masterpiece and posted a photo on his Facebook page of my “doggy paws”. While most would see this as cute or fun, it is realistic and taken from an actual photo of his actual paws. They are larger than life on purpose because that is how Prowler viewed himself (and yes, he actually expressed that to me). They are disintegrating at the top to represent his transition of body back to a soul as a visual reminder that he is still by my side-my left side actually where he always insisted to be.

I was 42 when I got my first tattoo. I am now 48 and have four; each one uniquely mine and in memory of a  beautiful soul. As each piece is unique, so was each experience. I learned, I cried, I laughed, I hurt, I loved, I experienced. Most of all, I was present. And for each tattoo experience, just as with each of these souls on my journey, and for my magic man for not only his artistic talent but his compassion and our connection, I was and remain grateful.

❤️🖤❤️🖤

Tattoos are the stories in your heart written on your skin.

- Charles DeLint