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erraticfairy · 5 years ago

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Simple Ways to Make Your Home into Your Sanctuary

Suddenly, because of the pandemic, our homes have become one-stop shops. It’s where we work, teach our kids, and attend religious services. It’s where we sleep, eat, and relax (in theory).

Besides taking walks and running urgent errands, most of us are staying in. So, it’s helpful to make our homes into a place we actually want to be.

Currently, our homes need to “replace a lot of the ‘feel-good’ emotions we had in going out,” said Victoria Vajgrt, a professional home organizer in San Francisco. For example, she said, the yoga studio helped us to relax, while romantic restaurants helped us to reconnect to our partners.

Creating a safe, serene space combats stress and hyperviligence. “The COVID-19 pandemic is causing our brains and bodies to be in a constant state of fight, flight, freeze, as we are experiencing ongoing trauma, fears of scarcity, and feelings of helplessness on a personal, professional, and global level,” said Nidhi Tewari, LCSW, an EMDR therapist who treats trauma and anxiety in Richmond, Va.

And it’s hard to de-stress in a chaotic, cluttered space, noted Katie Lear, LCMHC, a therapist in Davidson, N.C. Many of her clients have reported that rearranging and redecorating their homes has helped to boost their mood.

“It can feel empowering to take control of your own space and make something new and different out of the familiar,” Lear said.

But this doesn’t have to be a complicated, involved process. Here are 12 simple tips for making your home into a sanctuary that supports your mental health.

Create a dedicated workspace. This could be a separate room—or it could be a corner in your bedroom, a spot in the guest room, or the dining room table, said Patty Morrissey, an organizing and lifestyle consultant and KonMari consultant in Huntington, N.Y. To get you into a productive frame of mind, she said, use this space or desk solely for your work.

If space is super limited, use a portable file box to contain your work materials and tools—“when the box comes out, you know it’s time for work,” Morrissey said.

Communicate about everyone’s needs. Talk to everyone in your household about what they need from your home and what a sanctuary looks like for them, Morrissey said. Amanda Fludd, LCSW-R, a psychotherapist in Valley Stream, N.Y., has a work corner where her 7- and 9-year-old kids typically play. She’s talked to them about the importance of this space for her—to take calls, work, and stay calm and focused.

Add meaningful touches. Fludd put live flowers and a diffuser on her desk to instantly invoke a sense of peace and signal that this is her space. “I also face the wall which has a framed quote on it, and keeps me from seeing the explosion of Legos behind me, [creating] the mirage that this is my escape.”

Look to your senses. Los Angeles-based master coach Jackie Gartman suggested asking yourself these questions to create a sanctuary on your own terms:

What scents do you love? This might be anything from the ocean to freshly baked banana bread.

What sights help you to feel calm? This might be a photo of your loved ones and a bowl of bright navel oranges.

What do you love to feel? It could be your beloved cat and a soft blanket.

What sounds help you to feel safe and connected? It might be listening to church music or the wind.

What do you love to taste? This might be anything from your grandmother’s cookies to a juicy grapefruit.

To create a sense-based space, Gartman said, you might play jazz while cooking dinner, spray lavender on your pillows before bed, bake Grandma’s cookies, and put wind chimes on your patio.

Create a Zen zone. Creating a specific spot in your home solely for relaxation helps you cultivate a habit of relaxation, said Andrea Travillian, a life and business coach who helps women transform their lives into the happy successful dreams they crave.

And this space can be anywhere—your spare bedroom, bathroom, walk-in closet, balcony, or screened-in porch, Tewari said. She suggested adding soft blankets, fluffy pillows, holiday lights, and plants or flowers.

Travillian has a chair and side table in her bedroom that’s dedicated to journaling, meditating, and drinking her morning coffee.

If your retreat is your bathroom, make your bath or shower into a luxurious experience. Use candles, which “add aromatherapy and a soothing glow to the space,” and put towels in the dryer for a warm, sensory experience, Tewari said.

Make a soothing sensory box. According to Tewari, you can use this in your Zen zone or anywhere in your house. She suggested using any storage container to house items that calm and comfort you. “Having all of these items in one place will take away the pressure of finding a way to decompress at the end of the day, when decision fatigue has taken ahold.”

Focus on lighting. During the day, open up the blinds or curtains to let in natural sunlight. In the early morning and evening, use candlelight to “increase a sanctuary-like atmosphere,” said Carla Marie Manly, Ph.D, a clinical psychologist in Sonoma County, Calif.

Use special-occasion items. Morrissey stressed the importance of taking out the fine china, cloth napkins, pretty placements, and linen tablecloth. Put on your favorite perfume or silk shirt. Burn the good candle you’ve been saving. “This may seem frivolous, but little joys go a long way,” she said.

Bring the outdoors in. If you’re able to get outside, Vajgrt suggested gathering rocks, pruning a bush and arranging the clippings in a vase, or growing new plants from existing greenery. What natural objects can you bring into your home that ground you?

Use your favorite places as inspiration. Reflect on how you can channel the atmospheres of your favorite places into your home. According to Vajgrt, you might reflect on how your favorite café or yoga studio evokes a sense of peace. Maybe the café has comfortable seating and the scent of sweet, strong coffee. Maybe the yoga studio diffuses calm-inducing lavender and has a minimalist esthetic.

Contain clutter with baskets and bins. The first week of online school, Travillian’s son had his schoolwork spread across three rooms. Their quick, effective fix was to put everything into one large basket, which now lives under the dining room table. “Now when he is done he packs it up and the mess is gone!”

Have 5-minute decluttering sessions. “Clearing the clutter from your kitchen, office, or other places you spend a lot of time in will not only make you feel better and freer but more in control of our crummy circumstances,” said Gartman. To avoid feeling overwhelmed, set a timer for 5 minutes every day. For example, toss expired spices or organize your kitchen utensils, she said.

from World of Psychology https://ift.tt/2wN7b9i via theshiningmind.com

#World of Psychology #child psychology

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ars-simia-animus · 5 years ago

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You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

Chapter Six: “One Taste of Sorrow, One Taste of Fear”

Summary: Jarvis’s health is failing. While Peter waits helplessly at his home, Tony has taken Jarvis back to the cottage in Long Island to spend his last days. The cottage is more than Jarvis’s home, however. It was Ana’s. And, in many ways, it was Tony’s. It was the beginning and ending of many important paths in his life.

This chapter highlights the far-reaching power of father-child bonds. Trigger warnings for this chapter: a scene of inappropriate child discipline, child abuse, homophobic language, and panic attacks.

Thank you all for your grace and readership!

Read after the break.

September, 1868

Ana dressed Tony for town and took him to the telegraph station in Huntington. Even though there were far fewer pedestrians bustling through the streets than there were in the commercial parts of the city, where the Stark Industries skyscraper was, Tony pressed close to her skirts. She hid an amused smile until she felt his small hand slip into her palm. Then she softened and held his hand reassuringly, reminded how truly isolated the boy was. He held her hand until it was time to write his telegram message on the little card for the operator.

VIRGINIANA TERRACE, T.O., O.N.. SEPT 10 1868

SAMUEL POTTS

MRS ANA SAID I SHOULD WRITE YOU. WILL START RIGHT AWAY. WATCH FOR MY LETTERS. SEND REPLY. TONY STARK

When he had been given the receipt slip for his $7.46, they left the telegraph station and he seemed a little more confident. It was as though this were a milestone for him in the road to adulthood. Ana made a mental note to plan more town excursions for him. It was even more crucial since he would begin boarding at the academy in less than two years.

The reply came a few days later.

STARK MANSION, HUNTINGTON, N.Y., U.S.A. SEPT 14 1868

ANTHONY “TONY” STARK

PLEASED AS PUNCH TO RECEIVE YOUR TELEGRAM. EAGERLY LOOKING FORWARD TO YOUR LETTERS WITH ALL MY HEART. SHALL WRITE YOU TOO. YOURS SAMUEL POTTS

Tony read the telegram and nodded, shoving down a grin. “That’s nice.” He said and laid the card on his desk. “I suppose I had better write him a letter soon since he’s expecting it so eagerly…”

Ana scoffed to herself and left the room, so he could write his letter to Samuel without embarrassment.

January, 1903

Peter laid out a test tile for each of the 200 glaze recipe variants he’d created to produce the peach bloom effect. When he’d finished, they formed a long road through the kitchen. May had nearly scattered them when she scurried in for a quick bite before heading to the Thompson mansion. “My!” She exclaimed but didn’t pause long enough for any further comment.

His favorites were the recent mixtures, he confirmed, after scanning the tiles. The mixtures with higher amounts of tin oxide… He remembered Tony’s proud expression and he momentarily felt his enthusiasm wrung out. He missed Tony.

Stubbornly, he shook the feeling and selected two tiles to compare. Then he flipped through the leaves of his notebook. The sound of the crinkled pages fluttering was both sweet and nervous. Peter found the recipe for the first tile and dog-eared the page. He began to search for the second recipe when he heard a knock at the front door.

The knock was insistent, as though the knocker had already tried once. Peter leapt up and ran to the door, not admitting to himself that his heart was thumping wildly with hope. Flinging it open, his face brightened and his tongue leapt without thinking. “Pepper!”

Pepper’s eyes, inflamed with dried tears, widened in delighted surprise.

Peter fumbled— “I—Mrs. Stark! I apologize—“

She quickly shook her head. “No, don’t correct it. That’s given me more joy than I’ve felt all week. Thank you!”

Trembling a little with happiness, Peter said, “Please come in! I will put on water for coffee…”

Pepper stepped inside. “I’m sorry to intrude suddenly. I wasn’t sure when I’d be able to arrive.”

“Not at all, ma’am! I’ve missed you.” Peter said, then blushed. She gave his hand a warm squeeze. He schooled his nerves to quiet. “Is Happy here? He’s welcome to come in.”

“Thank you, dear, but he’s gone ahead with Col. Rhodes. I will be retrieved by Harley with the other carriage in a little while.”

“Col. Rhodes?” Peter asked with a smile. Then he let it fall, realizing that he shouldn’t be smiling. Everyone was worried for Mr. Jarvis; this was no time to act like a puppy, jumping for attention.

“Yes,” she said. “He’s delivering some things to Tony’s childhood estate. Jarvis and his wife had a cottage there for many years. Tony’s kept it up up for him.” Somberness draped over her and Peter quietly offered to take her coat.

“Is it Mr. Jarvis?” Peter asked, meaning the reason for her visit, the reason for her sorrow.

Pepper nodded. She looked through the hallway with a slow sigh and Peter realized she had never been to his house before. He was glad that so much of his time recently had been devoted to cleaning. Pepper, however, wasn’t really looking with eyes that see dusted mouldings. Her eyes only moved to keep her from receding into her mind. “May we sit and talk, Peter, dear?”

January, 1869

Jarvis was beginning to understand that winter had driven them into a snare. The greatest risks were not the ice or chill outdoors, but the slowdown of Howard’s work world, the holidays with many dinner parties at which to politick, the influx of alcohol in the house, and the decrease of travel or outdoor play. The mansion was a trap with too many animals inside. If only one or two could be spared!

Father and son had more occasion to confront each other. Father and mother had more occasion to be aware of each other. Mother and son had more occasion to reject one another.

Jarvis’s job as Tony’s guard became doubly difficult— especially on Saturdays, which were Ana’s days off. She’d often check in, of course, between errands and projects; she never could leave her Tony alone too long, bless her.

However, she needed time to rejuvenate, too, Jarvis understood. And, he had many duties to oversee, both in the house and as personal assistant to Howard when he conducted business in his office. Tony had to mind himself. Jarvis prayed he would.

One afternoon, he heard the hellish tone of rage ring out from the hall. As his quickened stride brought him closer, Howard’s words became discernible. “Whose provision affords you to act like a fairy prince all damn day? Or your mother to run off to her French ladies? Huh?”

Jarvis entered the hall. Tony was pinched between the wall and Howard’s shoulders. Howard was impressing his height on the boy. Tony glared at the ground, face averted, caught between shrinking and rearing up to meet the oppressive figure of his father. His hands were clenched— Jarvis saw the white knuckles quiver from where he was.

“What’s this, huh, boy?” Howard broke off his tirade and jabbed at Tony’s fist. Sharp nasal inhalations were all the answer Tony could allow himself. “You want to hit me?” Howard boomed. “Do you? You mewling brat, you love to playact a man. Go on then—“

“Sir,” Jarvis said, but was not heard. He noticed a couple maids and a footman pressed against the staircase; undoubtedly they’d not been dismissed when the row started. Each looked pleadingly at Jarvis, their jaws as atremble as Tony’s. At the sound of a slap and Tony’s soft cry, Jarvis blanched and quickly signaled them to leave. He strode forward.

Tony seethed, his cheek pink. “Can you even talk of being a man?” He gritted. “Even your business partners step over you.”

Howard snatched Tony’s upper arm, and the boy winced, a grin of pain splitting his face. “Boy, you’d better turn down your tail unless you want me to do it for you.” There was a gravelly, low tone to the threat that caused Jarvis to reach out for Howard’s shoulder.

“Sir,” he attempted, “I would strongly advise—”

“Like Vanko did to you?”

Tony’s retort shattered Howard’s remaining sense of restraint.

He tore his son around by the shoulder so that his cheek was pinned against the wall. “You cannot speak to me that way!” Howard roared. He wrenched one of Tony’s arms behind his back. Then he regarded Jarvis as though the butler just arrived. “J, fetch me a strap!”

Tony didn’t cry but began to growl with exertion, trying to jerk free from Howard’s grasp. But, Howard twisted his arm; he gasped. If he’d had the faculty to speak, to further malign his father, Jarvis knew he would.

“No, Sir.” Jarvis replied. “And you should let go of the young master.”

Howard’s eyes flashed but he didn’t react otherwise.

“I do not believe that you are in proper control of yourself to discipline him, Sir.” Jarvis said.

Howard defended himself. “Did you hear how this little wretch spoke to me, and in front of my staff? Am I not master of my own house?”

“Certainly, Sir.” Jarvis replied evenly. “You’ve been injured by Mr. Anthony; however, should you punish him in such fury, I fear you will do more damage than you know you should.”

“Goddamn it, Jarvis!” Howard screamed. He took a moment to stare at his butler and confidant, his nostrils flaring and hot. “I am the boy’s father! I decide how to deal with his behavior.”

Jarvis imperturbably met the gaze. After Howard had mastered more of his breath, Jarvis subtly reminded him of their conversation months ago. “I cannot allow you to exceed what is appropriate discipline for the young sir.”

Howard sneered, sucked both lips between his teeth, then whirled toward his son and landed several hard swats on the boy’s backside with his open hand until Tony’s knees gave. Then he released the child and confronted Jarvis again. “Do you deem that appropriate, J?” He spat tersely.

Jarvis watched him, silently, as he stalked upstairs. Then, Jarvis turned to help Tony stand, but Tony was already bolting from the hall, out of the main door, and into the blistering wind.

Jarvis could hear the pummeling of body against the punching bag as he approached his home. The noise bled through the walls of the cottage and ran through the thin winter air. Jarvis had taken time to retrieve Tony’s winter coat, gloves, and ear muffs. He worried about the frigid wind slicing across the boy’s unprotected ears and fingers. Fortunately, the cottage was not too far.

Pushing open the door, he found Ana in the kitchen. She paused from rubbing the table with linseed oil and wax and rose to look at him. Their deflated expressions might have matched but for an expectant, questioning lift to her eyebrows.

The sounds of impact, the grunts, the creak of the punching bag’s chain as it was jostled, and the scuffles of feet clamored up from beneath the floorboards.

Ana crossed her arms and nodded her head toward the floor. In answer, Jarvis sighed. She said, “He crashed in here, unable to speak, shaking like a drowned cat. He started to bite his thumb knuckle rather meanly—“ she swallowed her emotion. “I told him to use the bag downstairs, that’s what it’s for and less dear than his poor hand.” She trailed off and they listened to Tony’s primal shrieks and punches.

“He’ll exhaust himself that way.” Ana remarked after a moment. “Striking out with no form, no healthy breathing…” Then she looked at her husband again.

They were sharing an idea— one that could prove to have difficult consequences. It was like mixing dangerous chemicals, yet, if the formula was successful, the risks might pay off. Jarvis spoke it first. “Would you consider it a wise outlet for him, my love?”

Ana huffed and they heard a lull in the onslaught downstairs. Then, muffled sobs. She said, “I had hoped that building could be his outlet. Inventing! He’s so brilliant. But…” She let the air take her words. Downstairs, the beating resumed.

“Sir dared him, taunted him.” Jarvis said. The rare swell of anger in his voice may have escaped most, but not Ana.

“All of his control is being stolen.” She chewed her lip. “He wants so desperately not to feel powerless. I had hoped to build his confidence through excursions into town. But, his father is so damn persistent in cowing him.” She hissed. “Any self-assurance he gains is extinguished directly.”

Jarvis let his fingers drum in the air, as if on piano keys. This was his one telltale. It was his anxiety releasing. Ana loved him for it. Such a gentle gesture.

“If he employed this skill to—“

“Clock his father in the snout?” Ana finished for him, a pointedly unconcerned lilt in her tone. She composed herself and crossed her arms. “Or anyone else...”

Tony took another break, and this time hacking breaths followed in the silence. Jarvis’s gut twinged in pity. He hoped Tony did not drive his little stomach to vomit. He needed a sense of self-Preservation. Restraint. Control. Discipline— self-discipline. Confidence.

“I would have you teach him,” Ana said.

The declaration surprised him. “I’m not against it, though, may I inquire to your reasoning, beloved?” He asked. Jarvis had assumed it would become part of Tony’s schooling, something they planned into their regiment of History, Arithmetic, and Rhetoric.

“Two reasons,” Ana said. “If I were to be his instructor, he would nag me to train him all day and we’d never get through our academic lessons! Workouts must have a consistent, structured time, and that will be easiest to accomplish with your schedule.

“Secondly,” she said and softened. “I think it would go a long way to amend some of the very reasons he’s down there if he had a positive relationship with an older male.”

Jarvis met her gaze for a long while. He knew this was his call to action. To join in her work.

Children were not, never had been, his area of expertise. Though he could care for their basic needs, and he did love Tony as his own son, to be trusted with his emotions… to be relied upon by such a small person… terrified him. Ana had joked with him about never having been a child; however, that was not the issue.

Jarvis irrepressibly recalled the feelings of childhood. He had been a child much like Tony. Growing up, he’d been trapped between fear and longing for affection. The world he’d known was rigid; it was the mirror companion of Tony’s world.

Class tensions fed into his domestic life. Both of his parents tended to take out the insecurities, caused by their low social standing, on each other or on him. The military was his salvation, both in leaving his situation and in learning to channel his emotions into something productive . Now he was a man, except when beside a child. Then he felt just as vulnerable and dependent, fearing he was powerless to satisfy the trust in their eyes.

Still, if Ana believed in him, and the young sir needed him, he would rise up to the call.

In the chalky light of the basement, Tony lashed his arms wildly against the bag. It absorbed each hit as though Tony had no strength at all. Reckless despair wracked his body. He was hysterical, needing control, drowning, directionless, exhausted, his nerves as raw as his throat. He flailed with fists and elbows until his wrists were limply flapping against the giant leather weight.

Jarvis’s soft footsteps on the stairs were lost amid the din. He watched Tony stumble back, the boy’s breath like claw marks in the air. Jarvis’s features resembled his knotted heart. He walked to the boy.

Exhilaration colored Tony’s cheeks a violet red against which the teartracks glowed. He slumped against the bag. It’s cool surface was the first instance of comfort he’d felt since his father’s voice turned harsh. Since he’d called Tony those names, names Tony barely understood. All he knew was that Howard hated him. He hated Tony. For all the ways he failed to measure up to his father’s expectations.

A choked sound emerged from his throat. It incited Tony to spring up again, knocking his arms against the leather body, despite the nauseated exhaustion pulsing through him. He was all fumes. He would have rather traded places with the bag. At least he could have felt strong while being beaten.

Then, he felt Jarvis’s wide hands close around each of his own. Tony looked up sharply. The man sank to his heels and looked Tony in the face. Tony fought to free himself until Jarvis’s voice halted him.

“If I instruct you in boxing,” Jarvis said, “your fist will only strike this bag.” Eyes intent, he commanded Tony’s gaze. His voice was stronger than Tony had ever heard it, but not threatening. It was more like a pact was being made. “Are we at an understanding?”

Realization bloomed in Tony’s eyes. He nodded. The adrenaline that had thrashed Tony nearly senseless was replaced by fascinated anticipation.

Jarvis stood and stepped behind him, adjusting his stance with gentle firmness. “Plant your feet, here, slightly exceeding shoulder width.” Jarvis murmured. He tapped Tony’s heels with his toe and the boy tried to obey, sliding his feet according to where he thought Jarvis had described. “Left toe forward, right heel back.” Jarvis kept his directions concise, speaking lowly, trustingly. “Keep your weight evenly distributed.

“Good. Knees should be loose. Never lock them.” Jarvis continued. Tony felt Jarvis’s own, muscular knee softly prod his. He bent them a little. “Unless you feel inclined to nap at the foot of your opponent. Blood flow cannot be shirked.

“Now.” Jarvis closed his hands over Tony’s again. He used his arm as a model, bending the elbows, and drawing them close to his sides, guiding Tony’s to follow. Tony remained limber, allowing Jarvis to mold his form. “Elbows down, fists up. The left protects your face.”

Tony’s heart fluttered when his fists were positioned in front of him. He felt like a boxer. Jarvis used his left hand to pat Tony’s shoulders. “The force of the strike should come from your hip, not your shoulders. Keep them straight.” Then, his hand once again enveloped Tony’s left.

“Always start with a relaxed body.”

Jarvis waited. He waited and Tony waited. Slowly, Tony realized that Jarvis’s muscles were at complete ease. However, his own were tight as a wrung rag; he endeavored to undo them, but didn’t know how.

Jarvis noticed his mounting distress and suggested he close his eyes and focus on the quietest sounds he could hear. “Release the tension in your toes. Now your ankles. Your calves... and knees...”

Tony felt himself unfurling. He was aware of the warmth from Jarvis’s torso. The arms that braced him relieved his doubts. He heard Ana’s footsteps above them, the sound of the radiator, and finally his own breathing, by now nearly peaceful.

When Tony had melted into a relaxed position, Jarvis said, “Inhale, strongly, through the nose.” Slowly, he revolved them at the waist, drawing back, and dragging his foot. Tony replicated his movements eagerly. Then he pivoted them forward, extending their right arms toward the bag. “Exhale when you throw the punch. Do this every time, young sir— never hold your breath!”

Tony narrowed his mind, completely aware of his breathing.

“Tighten your fist at impact and, immediately, relax as you withdraw. Always return to this position: elbows down, hands up.”

He walked through the actions again, a little faster, but demonstrating instead of narrating. In the absence of words, Tony realized that the way Jarvis has been speaking to him was unprecedented— no needlessly eloquent or passive phrases. It emphasized the quiet strength and confidentiality that always warmed Jarvis’s tone with him. The voice, along with the man’s arms, girded Tony like armor. He gave into the protection offered to him.

The third time he repeated the pivot, Jarvis unleashed a spurt of force. It reverberated down his arm and met the bag with a bang. Tony gaped. He’d felt it, the power traveling through Jarvis’s arm, tremendous to his child’s perception, yet harnessed and directed.

Jarvis let go and encouraged him to repeat the punch on his own. Tony did his best, knowing he hadn’t performed the action exactly, yet he still received Jarvis’s praise:

“I see you’ve remembered to inhale before the punch and tense at impact. Very good, young sir! Remember also to exhale into the throw and relax when you return to position. Show me again.”

January, 1903

Peter laid out a doily and the nicest cup and saucer he could find for Pepper’s coffee. He also placed a tin of candied walnuts on the table that he’d been conservatively snacking from for the past month.

Pepper sat taking soft breaths; it seemed this was perhaps the first moment she’d had to rest in days. Peter opened the tin with a small pop and Pepper noticed his activity for the first time. “Oh,” she said, “Peter, you don’t need to go to any trouble. Please, sit with me.”

She placed a hand on the table beside her and Peter moved into the chair she was indicating. He waited while she traced a finger over her eyebrow. Gently, she began: “Happy mentioned to you that Mr. Jarvis is not well?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter said. “I am so very sorry.”

Pepper sniffed. Her eyes, so purposeful usually, looked lost. They wandered briefly around the ceiling, brushing over the oil paintings on the wall, the couple of family photographs— one of Ben and Richard as boys, the other of May and her parents and siblings. She was four years old in the photo.

There was one photograph taken of Peter with his parents when he was eighteen months old. They were just preparing to move to America; the photograph was taken in Vaduz. When Richard and Mary had died and Peter was discovered by neighbors, alone, frightened, because he knew his parents (like the insects his mother studied, in their glass cases) were dead , but he didn’t know what to do, he was taken to the hospital, then the orphanage, and the photograph remained in the apartment. Their things were quickly cleaned out for the next tenet.

Fortunately, word spread to Nancy Leeds, Ned’s mother, and she stubbornly supervised the landlord and his lackeys as they packed up the Parkers’ belongings. She grabbed what she thought Peter would hold dear as he grew up without his parents. As soon as she learned where Peter was (by this time May and Ben had come for him) she delivered these items to the motel where they lived. The photograph of Peter and his mama and papa was now hung in his bedroom.

“Tony has taken Mr. Jarvis to his cottage home, where his wife is buried.” Pepper began. “We don’t think he’ll last the night.” She paused and Peter laid a hand on her arm to which she smiled tearfully. “I’m here to,” —she cleared her throat— “ask if you’d be comfortable attending his funeral.”

Peter’s face constricted. “Of course, ma’am.”

“It will only be a small group. And there should be very little extravagance. Mr. Jarvis wouldn’t tolerate any but,” she said and they both released a chuckle. “Mr. Jarvis asked that you be invited.”

Here Pepper smiled so he would understand that he was welcomed, wanted. Peter lowered his eyes and held onto the sweet ache he felt. He thought of the bond between Jarvis and himself.

The man had been very kind to him and treated him as though he were somehow important , always talking to him with respect, asking after his well being, and even calming his doubts when he stood, intimidated, in the grand halls of the Stark Mansion. Jarvis was the first to imply that Tony cared for him, beyond just as an entertainment.

It was the first time he visited the mansion; he was delivering a case of porcelain salt and pepper shakers. On the way to Manhattan, he’d turned his ankle and fallen to one knee in a rough-gravelled puddle. Humiliated to be standing on the mansion threshold with his entire right shin drenched and sullied with mud, and scared that a few shakers may have cracked, Peter was trembling when Jarvis approached him.

The man quickly saw he was in a miserable state and encouraged him to go to a drawing room “for some repose while I alert my master that you’ve arrived.” But, Peter was barely holding in his tears and was too ashamed to be seen any longer. He attempted to leave, but Jarvis noticed the way he nursed his ankle. “Are you injured, Mr. Parker? Please allow me to assist you.” Then he practically swept Peter to a soft chair.

Jarvis ignored his protests that he would soil the chair’s beautiful fabric as he touched the boy’s bruised ankle, gingerly feeling for a break. Finally, Jarvis won the battle by saying: “I would venture to guess that Mr. Stark would be very concerned if you left in this state, Mr. Parker. You are an important guest of his and I imagine he would care greatly that you are hurt.” He left Peter on the chair to retrieve some turmeric salve and gauze.

Guest? Peter remembered thinking astonishedly. Why didn’t I speak up? I’m no guest, just a delivery boy. Why did he know my name?

When the man returned, Tony was with him. “Been kicking mud hornet nest, have you?” He asked casually, lowering himself to his knees. Tony cut off Peter’s embarrassed refusal to let them tend to him. “I’m going to have a look at your ankle, so…” He tapped the toe of Peter’s shoe. “Shoe off!”

Then Tony said to Jarvis, “I’ll see to this, J.” He took the small tray with the salve and rolled gauze and set it on the floor. “No need for you to bend down at your age.”

“Your regard for my assumed frailty is touching, Sir.” Jarvis said dryly.

Tony grinned like a boy in church who’d gotten away with mischief because his parent was in the choir loft. He tenderly held Peter’s ankle and dabbed the salve on the swelling. Thankfully, no bones appeared broken. Peter watched, longing for home.

Tony said, “Would you be able to scare up a change of trousers, socks, and shoes for our little egret friend?”

Peter protested loudly, so Tony added: “You’ll have to speak up, J, someone’s yelling.” This instantly stopped Peter’s mouth. He turned a bright red.

Jarvis made to leave as Tony began to wrap Peter’s ankle snugly with the gauze. Peter glimpsed the butler pause before he left. He was looking at Tony, smiling, Peter thought, proudly .

December, 1871

The carriage was still lurching when Tony hurled himself from it, skidding on the greystone drive. Seamlessly, he shifted his momentum and sprinted across the snow. The footmen, who were there to unload his luggage from the academy, cried after him, “Mister Anthony! Your mother is expecting you presently!” He ignored their pleas, panting in desperation, running to the Jarvis cottage.

In the severity of winter, the cottage was stripped of its garden cocoon. It looked naked, standing alone in the snow. Tony rasped painfully as he finally reached the front step. The door didn’t budge when he pulled the handle, a little violently. Frantic, he knocked with an open hand, but not waiting for an answer. He searched the walls as though they would open to grant him passage.

There was the murmur of disturbed snow behind him. He turned and saw Jarvis moving across the lawn, coming from the main house, to meet him. Jarvis’s eyes were cast to the ground as though carefully watching his step. He didn’t look up at the teenager’s face until he entered through the fence gate. Emotion kept Tony’s breath straggling. He swallowed just as Jarvis met his gaze.

Jarvis smiled gently. “Welcome home, Young Sir.”

Tony couldn’t speak. His breath spilled out as ghostly fog. Language was lost except through his knitted expression. Please. Please let me go in .

Jarvis cleared his throat. “Allow me to get the door for you.” He approached and unlocked the door. Then, opening it, he allowed Tony to enter the cottage first.

The movements of Tony’s legs were stunted as if his joints had calcified. His shoulders and elbows cut weird angles, collapsed and folded, like a swan’s wings. The base of his spine bowed slightly. He shuffled into the kitchen.

There was no light in the house, which seemed to him so unnatural that he shivered as if scared— or cold? He didn’t know. The dimness spoke to him; it told stories of empty nights, of his absence while at the academy, of a life like a lost breath.

He scanned the walls and saw her sketches still hanging there. He saw her dried flowers and herbs hanging above the kitchen sink. There were the postcards she framed from her mother in Budapest. Knick knacks bought at shops around Europe. One of the kites they built was still hung on the wall. It had seemed silly to him at the time, but he was grateful now. The room was still arranged the way she liked it. Jarvis wouldn’t change these things, would he?

Revolving slightly, in place, Tony inspected every nook of the cottage walls, looking for changes. He was looking for signs. His eyes burdened with tears. He was looking for things missing. His stomach clenched unbearably tight. He was looking for her. He was looking for her.

He sobbed, pulling both hands through his hair.

Then, he saw the bassinet in the corner of their sitting room. He was before it soon, not remembering moving across the room. Lightly, his fingers touched the green ruffles. He played a second with the thin ribbons. Knitted baby booties were laying on the end table nearby. Tony didn’t recognize the adjacent rocking chair. He stared at it.

The next sensation was bubbling inhalation. He felt himself convulse, barking breaths too far apart to keep him supplied with oxygen. He caught the arm of the rocking chair. Jarvis was beside him quickly, one arm around his back, the other on his arm.

“Young Sir, breathe.” Jarvis instructed calmly but with urgency. Tony choked; his cheeks were twitching. “Breathe like we do in the boxing ring.”

Jarvis braced Tony’s arms with his own. He encouraged the boy to rise. Tony gasped, but began to recite to his body what it should do: inhale sharply through the nose, exhale and relax. Inhale sharply through the nose, exhale, relax. Jarvis secured his arms to his sides. Elbows down! Hands up!

His spirit fought him, though, pleading to collapse. She’s gone! She’s dead! The only person that ever loved me! I wasn’t enough! I wasn’t hers. She’s gone. She’s gone!

Jarvis held him. Gently, he swung them back then forward, miming the punch. He kept a rhythm that supported healthy breathing. “Inhale.” He rocked Tony back. “Exhale and tense.” He rocked Tony forward, felt him clench his fist at the wall then release a pent up exhale.

Tony saw his shadow on the wall. His shadow over the bassinet. Inhale. His fist struck toward it. Exhale. Tense. Relax. I killed her. Inhale. She’s gone; I’m here. Adrenaline coursed in him; he regained control of his lungs. Exhale. Tense. I’m finally… Relax ... all alone. Spikes of pain screwed through his jaws. He cried.

He cried, then he surged forth, breaking from Jarvis, throwing his weight into it— he punched his shadow directly in its heart and the wall was left with a kiss of his blood.

January, 1903

Peter threw himself into his work with renewed fervor. After he mixed his glaze components according to both recipe variations, he donned his apron, with its dried layers of slip, and pried open a crate of kaolin and a container of ball clay. Mixing the porcelain to the right plasticity took an hour. Peter carefully controlled each aspect of the clay. This piece was special .

Pepper had told him there was nothing he could do— for Jarvis or for Tony. Even though he’d eagerly offered to help at the cottage, cooking or fetching things, Pepper shook her head. “You’re such a very sweet child.” She said, “But, I think that there’s nothing you, or I, can do right now.” When there was nothing else he could do, Peter always returned to the clay.

May had come home as Pepper spoke to him about the funeral. When May saw Pepper at the table, her eyes wetted. “O!” May wrapped her arms around Pepper’s shoulders. “Vi siana vicin i! I’m so sorry, dear!”

Pepper returned her embrace. “Thank you, May,” she said and squeezed her eyes closed. To be honest, Peter was amazed. He had not seen the two together often.

A deep sense of family filled him. At this moment, he was ignited to create . He would create for his family and it would be the embodiment of their grief and shared love.

He threw the clay onto his wheel. Not bothering to sit at the stool, Peter allowed his body to tease around the clay, bewitching it as it spun, drawing it to him, feeding his vision into its rising form. He was grimly resentful of his attitude for almost the past two weeks. He’d been stubborn and misunderstood Tony’s gift.

There was no need to conserve materials; Tony wanted him to continue to create, without worrying about his work as a business . There was time to learn. Meanwhile, Tony intended him to be free. Maybe not totally free; he expected him to study and apply himself intelligently to his craft. But, to be as free as he could at his age.

Peter shaped the clay, saying every word he knew for family. Generosity. Trust. Acceptance… This was to be his offering to those who loved him. Also, however, he wanted to prove himself to Tony. Prove that he deserved the investment Tony had made in him.

December, 1871

Tony’s knuckles were broken. Jarvis knew from the sound of their impact against the wall and Tony’s agonized yelp. Jarvis tried to turn him, but Tony resisted, tucking his head resolutely to his chest. His shoulders build a cage. He was crying, wailing, actually, like a child even younger than he’d been when Ana became his nanny.

Finally, Jarvis had to crowd between Tony and the wall. Once he was able to push his way in front of the young man, Tony barreled into him, arms around his back, grasping with his uninjured hand to Jarvis’s suit jacket. Jarvis put aside the thought of the hurt knuckles; comfort first, it would have to be.

Tony was weeping against his neck. He held the boy tightly and began to speak any comforting words that came to his mind. “I’m here, young sir. You have me. I’m with you.”

Tony shuddered; Jarvis was relieved that he was not hyperventilating any longer. Words began to tear their way from the young man’s throat. It took several minutes to translate the moans and hiccups into: “I’m sorry, Jarvis, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry—!”

When Tony’s knees gave out under the weight of sorrow, Jarvis couldn’t support them both. He backed into the rocking chair, sank, and pulled Tony onto his lap, lying him across his chest. It was an awkward position, but manageable. Tony was shorter than most fourteen year old boys, and lean, though muscular, so he was not too difficult to hold this way. Reflexively, Jarvis began to rock the chair. It helped to distribute the boy’s weight.

“Why do you apologize, Young Sir?”

Tony snuffled. After a moment, he attempted to speak again. “The-they w-w-woul-n-n’t-t allow m-me to tra-vel ba-ack ‘ntil the s’mester had e-ended!” He heaved another painful sob. “Fa-fa-ther— I didn’t get to say goodbye!” The anger and grief tolled through his last cry.

Jarvis was quiet for a long time. Sighing deeply, he said, “Ana treasured your letters. I hope you know she read them all the time she was on bedrest. She knew you were thinking of her.”

Tony’s wails renewed. Jarvis began to rock again. He moved a hand against the boy’s back, attempting to soothe him. The fit didn’t last as long this time before Tony coughed out another phrase. “It’s my fault, J! I did”— he lost his breath— “th-thi-is t’ h-h-her-r!”

Jarvis had to swallow before he could speak again. He’d had time to grieve. Ana was buried, along with their unborn child, nearly two months ago. After weeks of sterile, joyless life alone, he had a new routine and each day was easier to conquer. But, with the quaking youth slung across his chest, wounds were beginning to open again.

For Tony, the loss had been confirmed only when he stepped into the cottage. Fresh, raw, it was like a potent venom. He sat writhing in its grip.

“No, Young Sir.”

“Yes, Jarvis—!“ Tony snapped. “I—“ His voice failed. The arms around him pressed down reassuringly. Jarvis’s heartbeat surprised him. He hadn’t been listening, yet, suddenly, it was below his ear. Steady, the sound seeped into him and he calmed significantly. Heartened, he was ready to confide. “I didn’t want her to have a child.” Lashes of guilt struck up and down his throat. “I was selfish— I—wished that— she wou- wouldn’t— “

Tony couldn’t see the wince that crossed Jarvis’s face. But, he felt the kiss on his forehead. He whimpered. Why was he receiving love? Why, when what he’d done was so awful?

“I hardly think you are so capable, Young Sir, of influencing what happens in this world. Not even a child’s parents are always totally involved in its, er, planning.” Jarvis murmured then cleared his throat. “Besides, I would have you know, that Ana and I already had a child.”

When he realized Jarvis meant him, Tony‘s eyes flickered, and then he felt the kiss again. This time, it was slightly more emotional, leaving his forehead with a tiny sound. Tony closed his eyes.

“And, please, know that any others were not meant to replace you. She never wished to replace you. Her hope had been for you to be as a—” He abandoned the phrase. Social decorum still had a hold on his mind; that would never be easy to overcome.

Tony somehow figured out his meaning anyway: as an older brother.

Jarvis’s voice lowered more when he spoke again. “She loved you, Tony.” The heartbeat quickened. “I love you.”

Whispering Tony returned the affection: “Me, too.”

After an indeterminable time, Tony pulled away, but not because he wanted to; neither could take the precarious arrangement on the rocker any longer. Also, Tony’s broken hand throbbed unbearably. He held it to his abdomen.

Jarvis stood and asked, as evenly as if he’d not just held and kissed Tony as tenderly as any father could: “If you’ve endured that long enough, I’d suggest allowing me to tend to it, Young Sir.”

“Thank you, J. Thank you.”

#Amphora #You'll Rise Up Free and Easy

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