Pieces

We are sitting around the table these pieces of me and me. Pulling at threads of random conversation sprinkled with laughter and shouting talking over passionate outbursts bursting and then some yelling too.

I’m laying on the floor feet up in the air and the pieces of me toy with legos and listen with one ear to their music I don’t quite get and I’m shrieking like a banshee about legos on the floor and how I don’t feel respected because how many times have I asked for a remedy to this mess in the corner of a living space.

And legos grow in size. They magnify into that deep mother wound that floods with frustration from the place that just wants so desperately for my pieces to be happy. They grow so big that I get up off the floor and go into the garden so I can come back down to size as I marvel at cucumbers growing on the vine. My piece goes into her room and puts both headphones on and slams the door.

I grab some basil because I know she likes it and come to my piece with peace. Calm now and from the heart, healed by growing cucumbers and rich soil I wrap her in my arms and we remember we are whole.

Back to the table now, legos and laughter and the conversation steers to farts, just like it should my pieces and me being whole together.

When we come back it’s gold because we went there. That space after we kick and scream and let it bleed…that space that we take to watch the cucumbers is space that we look at ourselves and our responsibility and generate gratefulness for the space to be as we are traumas and triggers bubbling to the surface with our pieces of us and of them…it’s the work, the therapy of sinking into these relationships so honestly and vulnerably. And I remember that while I haven’t necessarily taught them to listen to me about cleaning up legos, I have taught them about this. And I’m okay with that.