Time for a Change

Over time, 

isolated systems of the entire universe 

will always gravitate towards entropy, 

or gradual decline into disorder. 

– 2^ndLaw of Thermodynamics

It’s that time of year again . . . the time when I look around and wonder how my home could have possibly gravitated towards such disorder.  The messes in every corner of every room, the piles of things that I don’t know what to do with, the items I do need but can’t seem to find anywhere. I decide, here and now, that one of the priorities in the New Year will be to de-clutter. To bring some sort of order to this chaos.  It is definitely time for a change!  

The entropy, the decline into clutter, did not happen overnight, which means that it will not be tackled overnight either. This kind of decluttering project cannot be completed in a day.  Or even a week.  It will take time.  There may be seasons when it gets overwhelming, the task before me much too big. But little by little, bit by bit, I will rejoice in the moments of progress.  I will focus, unwavering and resolute on my goal of peace and order and, dare I say, joy in my physical spaces.  

This is even more true for my mental spaces.  I wonder how my mind could have possibly gravitated towards such disorder.  The regrets and grief of yesterday’s failures, the anxiety of all of tomorrow’s unknowns, the ideas and dreams that I do want to focus on but my mind won’t rest long enough.  I decide, here and now, that one of the priorities in the New Year will be to de-clutter my mind. To bring some sort of order to the chaotic thoughts.  It is definitely time for a change!

Small Stones

It is just sitting here, this plain glass jar in my bathroom.  The jar is clear and simple, and inside the jar are smooth colored stones, all shiny and perfect.  The centuries that these stones spent tossed in the relentless waves and sand of the Atlantic Ocean have perfectly smoothed away all the rough edges, leaving them sleek and glossy, almost as if an unseen hand has deliberately polished them.  Oh, how I love these serene and beautiful stones that have been sitting here on my porcelain counter for so many years.

Sitting here for so many years, that is, until my two-year old daughter stands beside me.  It takes one curious little hand just one moment to reach for the jar, and in one horrifying crash, the floor is covered with small stones and shattered glass.  Utterly wrecked.  Beyond repair.

In an instant, before I even know what is happening, I am screaming at my daughter, What did you do?  Look what you did?  Look at this mess?  Why do you have to touch my stuff?  Why do you have to break everything?  Do you understand how furious I am right now?  The blistering words spew out of my mouth like an active volcano, sizzling and scorching the innocent little one in front of me, melting her into a puddle of tears.

Whoa!  What just happened?  I am shocked and alarmed at my sudden outburst.  Where did this outrage come from?  What made me lose control like this?  Why would such a minor incident cause me to respond with such a vicious tirade?

Learning to Trust

She hears the front door squeak open, and she tenses, involuntarily bracing herself for . . . she is not quite sure what.  Whenever he comes home, everything changes.

When she is alone, she can almost relax, almost imagine a life full of peace and serenity and calm.  In the quiet moments, she can remember a time when there was silly laughter and deep joy and infinite hope for the future.  But those days are behind them now, and her home is, instead, filled with frequent strife and familiar bickering.  There is a tension that lives here now, a tension that she can almost feel.

She never knows which one will walk through the front door at the end of the day:  Happy Him or Angry Him.  The him who smiles and asks about her day, or the him who snarls and immediately starts belittling and criticizing her flaws.  The him who wants to chat and engage, or the him who is sullen, angry and withdrawn.

The minute he walks in, the part of her brain that senses danger is activated, and every muscle, every sense is instantly on high-alert.  Are those light-hearted footsteps she hears striding down the hall, meaning that he is ready to interact with her?   Or can she hear a hostile purpose in those shoes, meaning that someone somewhere in his day may have upset him somehow, and now he is ready to take out his frustration on her?  Or perhaps, could it be that she hears a slight shuffle, the defeated trudge that will send him and his dark mood straight to his room, barely even noticing her?

He rounds the corner to where she is standing, and one look at the expression on his face tells her everything she needs to know.  It’s Happy Him.  At least for the moment.  She exhales the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding, and allows herself a smile in his direction.  He grins and greets her with, “Hey, Mom! I’m starving!  What can I eat?”  Her son is home.

The Long Road of Healing

Don’t cry little one.  Take my hand.  Let us walk against the wind together.  Let me be the hand that guides you back to hope.  Back to love. – source unknown

Sometimes I forget.  I forget the years of his life that he spent alone.  Trapped in a crib that was less like a bed and more like a cage.  No matter how much he cried, there was no one to comfort him or hold him or rock him to sleep.  And sleep was rare for him, not only because of the constant pain caused by his medical condition, but because of the strangers who came in his room, coming in at all hours of the day and night.  Strangers who would do painful, excruciating things to his frail body.  He would scream and wail, begging them to stop, but they only restrained him more firmly, pinning down his arms and legs so that he could not escape their torment.  Sometimes I forget the horrible trauma that this child has experienced.

He may have no specific memories of those early years.  He would never be able to articulate now what happened to him, or describe why, even though it’s been several years, he continues to have frequent nightmares and unexplained anxiety.  Why he doesn’t want his Mama out of his sight for even a second.  Why hasn’t he gotten over it yet?  He has been rescued from that former life, and theoretically he should be living happily every in the safety and security of his loving family. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.  His body remembers.  His cells have not forgotten.  His soul bears the invisible scars of being abandoned.  The excruciating physical pain.  The utter helplessness.

Is it any wonder that he is plagued by fear?  That unfamiliar situations cause him stress? That he is hyper-alert to his surroundings at all times and doesn’t tolerate surprises or unexpected changes to his routine?   Even being hugged too tightly or being pinned during a tickle fight causes terrified shrieking.  The uncertainty and insecurity, the hidden wounds that are still healing, have taken a terrible toll on his behavior.  The behavior that everyone can see.

The Quest for Peace

Before the eyes even open, it’s there.  Lingering, menacing, its approaching darkness threateningly close.  It’s a storm cloud that descends without warning, casting a dark gloominess across the day ahead.  Hope’s radiance may be struggling to shine through, but it is completely hidden in the shadows.

This ominous cloud may be Regret.  It is heavy with the tremendous weight of guilt, taunting its reminders of past decisions.  Roads that seemed innocuous and safe in the beginning, but with every step, every twist and turn, have long since led to a place of unintended consequences.  There is no going back.  That time can never be redeemed, and Regret is ever present, mocking and ridiculing the foolishness of yesterday.

Perhaps the foreboding cloud is Fear.  Facing an unknown future, feeling thoroughly unprepared and ill equipped.  This frightening cloud warns of impending storms, a deluge that threatens to consume, causing horrendous damage and destruction. What if the imagination’s worst nightmare indeed happens?  What about that possible scenario?  How will the heart be able to bear it?  The anxiety of such thoughts can be paralyzing.

Sometimes the cloud is simply Weariness.  The difficult circumstances of yesterday remain here today.  The battles that were fought so valiantly at the beginning have now become overwhelming and futile.  What’s the use of continuing the fight when nothing ever seems to change?  Not the slightest sign of victory is in sight.

The thoughts, the thoughts, the thoughts.  Like frightened rabbits, they bound across the meadow of the mind, first darting one way before turning suddenly and dashing in a completely different direction. They continue to scurry, frantically racing and whirling.  Never resting.  Will peace, that elusive tranquility and contentment so earnestly sought, ever be found?