#tellingmystory

[bynataliezubi]

about MEmes! here's a little bit about me and my journey in higher education. it goes oh so much deeper but I'll give you the gist of it.

In high school (and middle school) I was pretty depressed and ridden with anxiety. I struggled a lot academically and socially. At 16, I was diagnosed with major depression and anxiety disorder. I hated my life and I hated my hometown. I just wanted to leave. I managed to graduate high school in 2010 with a 2.75 gpa and decided to go to a university in a different state. I did well at first but at some point my mental health caught up with me, and so did an unhealthy relationship I was in - but that's a story for a different post... if I even make one.

Anyway, I decided to pursue a degree in Interactive Digital Design on the Web Design Track with a minor in Game design. Web design and video games were things I'd been interested in growing up, and still am, so it seemed like the right choice for me. It wasn't.

I tried to do well and even got the opportunity to take medications to help me, but the ones I tried didn't help and I found myself withdrawing in 2017 - after two failed relationships that drained me while I was attempting university, as well.

Some more life happened, another relationship happened, full time work happened, burnout happened, and I found myself with an Autism diagnosis at the age of 31.

After the death of my cat and some very honest conversations with my parents about the state of my mental health (it was bad), I got the opportunity to get excellent mental health care from the office of a friend of my father's.

After trying a few more medications (I'd tried many by that point with other doctors before) for my depression, anxiety, ADHD, and Autism the depression wouldn't go down so we decided to explore esketamine therapy, Spravato. It's like a cousin to ketamine but in controlled doses. I felt a new wave of inspiration and started creating digital abstract art on my ipad during Spravato sessions. (Let me know in the comments if you're interested in seeing my art).

A few months into it I was feeling really good and had created a lot of art so I decided I wanted to go back to school and pursue a degree in Art. I started posting my art online, along with blog posts on my old website, and even tried to sell some art on Etsy (that didn't work out.) Eventually, I stopped feeling the same about creating art.

For years I had been on a journey of personal development and working on my mental health. I realized that I had a lot of knowledge and passion for those subjects and decided I wanted to help people. I explored the idea of becoming a coach but I wanted to go deeper. I'd learned a lot about psychology and decided I wanted to pursue that as a career.

So far, I'm loving the psychology class I'm taking and am looking forward to taking more classes that truly interest me and inspire me to grow in this field.

I've always loved writing and since a young age wanted to be a blogger. So, I decided that I want to keep sharing what I know and learn along the way via these platforms (Instagram, TikTok, Substack, Tumblr, etc). If you're coming along for this journey, thank you for the support :)

[raemissigman]

The newest addition to my Pocket Journal collection. I will never tire of crafting my own unique art journals. Every single one has been a true conversation piece. It might be one of my favorite things about these tiny journals. Each time I pull one from my bag, the questions spill out of the curious minds around me. Whenever I am making art along my travels or out in public these are the books I choose to bring along. I make art in them and I make new friends through them. How many Pocket Journals have you crafted? Tap the link in my profile to read more about my art marks journey, make a Pocket Journal of your own, get access to free articles, artist tips, new classes and more. #watercolor #watercolorjournal #handpaintedjournal #vintagejournal #pocketjournal #pocketjournals #traveljournal #pocketjournalcollection #raemissigman #artjournalcommunity #documentyourlife #artjournal #artjournaling #artjournalpage #tellingmystory #visualstorytelling #storytellingthroughart #journaleveryday #vintagebookjournal #artmarksjournal #mixedmediaartmarks #vintagebooks #makerofartmarks #artjournalingmylife #artmarks #artdiary #colorcrush #watercolorartist #color https://www.instagram.com/p/CcyRFvepSi8/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jragmusic]

Bringing in the New Year with my son... A few bottles of champagne ready to pop when its midnight on the clock 🍾 🍷 #NewYearsEve #HappyNewYear #NewYear #NewYears #RockinEve #NewYear2022 #Holiday #Holidays #FreshStart #TellingMyStory #TrueStory #InTheMirror #InThisLife #OneMoreDance #Life #Style #LifeStyle #Fashion #BringingInTheNewYear #ToastToTheNewYear #Cheers #Champagne (at Huntingdon Valley) https://www.instagram.com/p/CYK9WquLQVL/?utm_medium=tumblr

[writingtoheal]

Even In Brokenness

As I sat around listening to the other members of the group speak, I couldn’t help but wonder, how did I wind up here? Most of the others were struggling just to get out of their house regularly, with little chance of support themselves or their family. Their issues seemed so profound, from debilitating anxiety to chronic pain and overwhelming addictions. I, on the other hand, had a full-time job, a decent place to live, and, from all outside appearances, a normal existence.  I wasn’t fighting battles in the here and now like they were. Many of these people were trying to escape current abusive relationships with possibly dangerous consequences. The abuse I experienced ended over 20 years ago and I still wasn’t convinced that I should even call it abuse. They needed to be in this mental hospital to gain their footing and learn new skills to break free from their addictions. I just wanted the nightmares to end. I wanted to go an entire day without a smell or a word triggering a flashback or starting up the video of those events from long ago. What did I really have to complain about compared to them?  I was just desperate to relieve my family from the burden of me and felt with all my heart that my daughter would be better off in the long run if I were no longer on this earth.  

I knew that my actions had led me to this place but I didn’t know what I was supposed to gain. True, I was “protected” but for how long.  I had no expectation that being in this place would bring changes to the underlying feelings that led me here.  I spent a lot of time in the small chapel, praying, writing, and hiding as much as I could. I asked God why this was happening and what I was supposed to do to make it all stop. I asked Him why he chose to preserve my life. I tried very hard to listen but no answers came. I knew that He hadn’t left me but I felt utterly surrounded by darkness. I was too ashamed to open up about the events that had suddenly started playing non-stop in my head. No one would ever understand. If I opened up, they would all know what a phony I was and how I didn’t belong. I desperately called out to God to help me go back to the way it was before. Thinking about those disgusting times in this new way, as abuse, only made me confused and angry, and I just couldn’t take any more. I was fully defeated, totally embarrassed, and irreparably broken.  

I wasn’t thinking about being used by God in that situation. I was begging Him to allow me to just die and more than a bit angry because He didn’t. I fully believe that God is all-powerful and uses all things to work for His good.  But when you’re locked up in a mental hospital, being used by God is quite far from your mind, at least it was from mine. So, I went through the motions, focusing on meeting their goals so I could just get back home. I ate when they told me to, took the medicines they gave me, and spoke just enough during group time to get a check beside my name.  I shared mostly lies and half-truths, but they didn’t know that.  I listened to the others, feeling a mixture of empathy, pity, cynicism, and even anger at the stories shared. Then one day, a young lady joined our group. She was just old enough to be placed with the adults instead of the teen unit. She was loud, crude, and seemed angry at the world. She couldn’t stay out of trouble and was ready to fight anyone who challenged her in any way. Her entire demeanor screamed, “Don’t try me!” For reasons I still struggle to understand, that’s not at all what I saw or heard. From the time she stormed into the room, sat right beside the door, and folded her arms in a big huff, I saw pain, not meanness. As I listened to her brag about beating up some kid over something minor, I heard fear in her voice. I had no idea why at the time, but I felt a sense of connection with this kid. It was like we had chosen different ends of the coping spectrum. She chose to build her wall of protection with anger and extreme defensiveness. If she threw the first punch, no one would ever hurt her again. I chose to throw all of my energy into making everyone around me happy. If I could distract them and do whatever it took to make them like me, no one would look too deeply and see my shame or the ugliness I felt on the inside. Both extremes were just mechanisms to try to cover up the pain.  

As group ended, I walked by her and made a quiet comment that only she could hear, again beyond my understanding at the time. I said, “The world isn’t going to end if you tell someone.” The shock was instantly evident on her face.  She didn’t fire back with the anger that had poured from her during group.  She just stared; mouth open.  I kept walking, still trying to figure out why those words came to my mind and why I felt the overwhelming need to say them to a perfect stranger.  About an hour later, she approached me, eyes wide and searching, and cautiously asked, “How did you know?”  Then I found myself sitting in the chapel, listening as she poured out her heart and shared the story that she had not told anyone else. Each word was so painful yet so freeing.  As the tears cascaded down her cheeks, remarkably, she seemed to grow lighter and lighter.  With each detail, the wall of fury she had built crumbled more and more.  She wasn’t looking for me to “fix” anything, which is good considering that we were both inpatients.  She just needed to get it out and see that, in fact, the world was not going to end and she could survive beyond the horrors of that horrific event from the previous year.  When she finished, the change in her whole person was evident. Her demeanor at group the next day was completely different. She was eager to visit with her parents and even wanted to apologize for her behavior. She didn’t offer an explanation or rehash the details she had shared in that chapel the previous evening.  We never spoke on a private level again and I have no idea what happened to her.  I’m certainly not claiming to have healed her pain with a few words and a listening ear.  That type healing only comes from God, Himself.  I know that she wasn’t really talking to me that evening.  She was pouring her heart out to her Heavenly Father, even if she didn’t fully realize or acknowledge it.    I feel privileged to have witnessed His miraculous healing power.  Looking back, I can now see that He opened my eyes to her pain.  He put those words into my mind and pushed me to deliver His message.  All these years later, I can’t help but wonder if He used that one conversation, sparked by one comment, to dramatically alter her life course. For me, remembering that series of events, reinforces that God can and does use us, even in our most broken state, whether we are open to it or not.

[greeneyeswhiteheart]

Last year I had a dream, but guys I was way too shy to even order some pizza, how was I supposed to make it come true?

Well, I'll tell you that it wasn't easy or quick.

Before meeting my host family I was shaking, I was terrified, I'm not gonna lie about it.

It wasn't easy to fit in a new reality, talk with people or maybe I should say strangers, not knowing anyone or how things work. I was surrounded by so many things I had to think about that I didn't even have the time to worry, worry about being shy, about being good enough, about being stressed or frustrated.

My first day of school, oh my soul, that day I was so scared, I was walking around trying to figure out how to arrive to my class and I felt like I wasn't even there, I felt like a ghost, because everything was so different that I thought it couldn't be real.

Anyway I got used to it, eventually. I made friends, black friends, white friends, and you can add as many colours as you want; they were from Spain, Germany, Canada, U.S.A., Russia, Lithuania, Africa, Brazil, even Japan and I loved and love everyone of them. I want to thank all of them, all of yous, for everything you did.

I just tried to enjoy every single day because I knew I couldn't live that day ever again and I knew my days there were just a limited number.

Many of my friends came back home in February and Coronavirus arrived.

Such a shame: I had my last day of school not knowing it was my last and I couldn't say goodbye to my friends who were still there because of the restrictions... not the best.

I know worst happened so I'm not going to complain about it, but it still sucks.

I didn't give up, I chose to stick with my original plan and leave only in the end of May.

You would think that now the boring part is coming but this quarantine-period was probably the best time I could've asked for.

I truly believe that my family and I were and still are so blessed: I need to thank my host sister, she was an inspiration to me, she had the patient to teach me and to support me, she trusted me, I hope she still does :)

I fell in love with my family, with the unique irish green landscapes, with my sisters, with the dogs with all the loudest chickens ever and last but not least I fell in love with the horses and everything about them. They gave me so much and I really think we've built something special, we had to trust each other all the way and to respect each other, those creatures I've met are kind and lovable. I'm still impressed of the fact that they are massive and hella heavy, they could easily kill you, they just choose not to.

That makes you think a lot... Anyway

I swear I'm done now,

I LOVE YOU IRELAND, THANK YOU.🍀

@fabyottaa

[theaquarianphoenix]

THE DRIVING LESSON

It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re driving back home from Show Low in our powder blue Ford, Taurus. We went to Show Low to get groceries and things my dad needed for projects around the house. We stopped at a hardware shop so my dad could look at chainsaws. He talked to someone for 45 minutes while we stood around outside. My younger brother and I made dirt configurations with our scuffed tennis shoes and kicked some pebbles back and forth. It was mostly boring, and my dad didn’t buy a new chainsaw. I guess he’s going to try to fix the one has, even though it’s hard to start and he gets mad at it almost every time he uses it.

On the 50-minute drive home, my brother, 13, is in the front passenger seat. My dad is driving. My mom is sitting in the back with my sister and me. I’m not sure why she’s not in front with my dad. There is conversation between my dad and brother, but I am not paying attention. I stare out the window and watch the landscape turn from piney evergreens to high desert laden with shaggy bark cedars, sage bushes, and pinyon trees. I watch the clouds make formations across the sky above the scenery. I am enthralled by their unending ability to shape shift, one minute a fiery dragon, the next a wild horse tossing her mane.

Ricky Van Shelton is playing in the tape player. He’s singing “From a Jack to a King.” My dad likes Ricky Van Shelton, so that’s who we are listening to.

I feel the car slow down and am shaken from the daze of my window-gazing world. I watch my dad pull over to the side of the road. We’re just outside the small town of Concho.  I ask my mom why we are stopping but she’s not looking at me or answering my question. My dad and brother get out of the car and swap seats. My mind makes a hurried, dreadful click. A realization. My dad has told my brother to drive. NO! I plead to myself inside of my head, “Please, No!”

The second my little brother slides in the driver’s seat my whole body tightens and clenches and bears down. My heart ricochets in my chest like a rogue bullet, painfully piercing the sides. I put my hand there to quiet its noise.

I already know what is going to happen.

Because it’s what always happens whenever you do anything alongside my dad. There is never teaching. There is no space for patience or learning. You must know. You must possess the knowledge of the exact contents of how things should be done according to my father’s rules and expectations. You are not allowed to make mistakes. You must be an expert, even if you’ve never done the thing you’re being asked to do before. You must do is RIGHT.

And failing to do things right means consequences. Ugly, ugly consequences.

I watch my brother put the shifter in drive. He looks so small in the big seat behind the steering wheel. His white, blonde hair barely levels over the top of the dashboard. Aside from a few streets in our quiet, small town, I’m sure he’s never driven a car. Instinctively, I feel the need to get low. To make myself unseen and sink into the Earth. I wish I could dig a hole and crawl down inside. Like a snake, I slide away from the window and press my head in my mother’s lap. I feel her body as stiff and tense as mine. She knows. And she’s bracing herself, too.

We aren’t more than a mile under way and my dad is already raising his voice, yelling at my brother not to drive too close to the center line. Angrily, he grabs the steering wheel and jerks the car toward the side of the road. I feel the jerk like a stab to my neck. A kind of invisible blood flows out. It starts pooling on the floor. My skin becomes pricked with stress and fear. Each hair raised at attention. A thousand tiny antennae. They absorb the vibration from my brother. The antennae on his own body reaching out along the current, communicating his terror, his pain, and the whirlwind of emotion he must navigate to survive what is happening.

I lift my head slightly from my mother’s lap and look out the window. I see a cloud shaped like an elephant. I imagine a circus.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Do you see that boy up there?? Look up! Way up! He will now perform a high-wire, tightrope act! To keep from falling to his death on the paved highway racing by below, he must do the impossible! He must balance his inexperience and the unimaginable pressure of trying to do things perfectly right, with a thousand tons of the unrelenting and brute dominion of his father!”

It continues this way the entire 15 miles to our house. My father yelling and jerking the wheel. I want it to stop. My mind falls in on itself over and over, pleading for it to end. But I can’t stop it. No one can. Not even my mother. Because we understand that, to protest, to intervene, to plead for mercy, is to poke the teeming, angry nest of a thousand swarming bees.

So, I try to stay still. Because stillness is the only way through. To keep the bees from stinging en masse. I peek up at my mother, her face so tight. I know this look. A mix of agony and helplessness. So filled with torture.

The invisible blood is still flowing.

In my stillness, I tune in to everything around me. My antennae at high vigilance and hyper aware. Each car that goes by whirs past like a buzz. I feel them almost cartoonish in their passing. Like the pages in a comic book. BUZZZZZZ!!! ZOOM!!! MEEEEEEEP! Our car almost spinning.

Then a flash!

I’m instantly brought back to reality by my father’s voice. The pounding hammer of his yelling. “Stay in the goddamned lines!” “Get the hell away from the center line!” “I thought you were more advanced than this!” “You’re not goddamned listening!” Jerks to the steering wheel. Again, and again. At one point, the jerk is so hard the car wheels screech. Each mile makes his shouting more intense. More sinister. More filled with rage.

And then I hear it.

SLAP.

A hard smack to the back of my brother’s head.

Have you ever seen my father? He’s big and strong and built like an ox. Sometimes I think he’s so strong he could lift our car over his head.

His slap rattles your bones.

For my brother, that slap meant, “Do it right, goddamn it! Do it right or I’ll hit you harder next time!”

When we pull up to our front yard, I feel a release from the anguish of being in the car. From the inescapable enclosure of that horror.  But the brutality and the trauma remain. It covers us. A baptism. In invisible blood. My dad has already stormed off somewhere, outwardly vindicated by his actions. We stagger, wounded in the upheaval of his wake, trying to swim to shore, to find our breath. To pick through the mountain of his wreckage.

I watch my brother slink out of the car. Hunched over. Like a tortured, terrified alley cat. When he looks up, we lock eyes and hold each other that way for a few seconds. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. I understand what his eyes are saying so completely I have to steady myself to keep from falling forward on my knees.

It’s always the same. That horrible mix of feelings. The blame. The shame. The guilt. The self-loathing. The self-doubt. The hatred. The anger. The demoralization.

The dismemberment.

The murder.

The death.

Of your spirit. Of your soul. Your heart.

Of You.

And the invisible blood keeps flowing.

[elizcondorvlog]

MY ENGLISH MOTIVATIONAL BLOG 🌺

[week 5 / class 2]

Topic:  Retelling stories 

Grammar: Narrative tenses, Past perfect and past perfect continuous 

Vocabulary: rushe, stranded, staff 

1. How do you fell today?

➤ Mood:  😜

2. What did you learn this week?

First we reviewed our exams and I am very disappointed in me for not having studied 😥😥 I hope to improve for the other 🤗🤗 and then we did a tour with new practical ways to understand the past perfect and past perfect continuous 🤩🤩.  

3. How well can you answer the assessment questions?

➤so well

4. Did you enjoy the class? Yes/No Why?

Yes, because I understood a little more about the past perfect and past perfect continuous and I feel happy. 🤭🤭🐾🐾

5. Is there anything you didn’t understand?

Yes, I need learn more verbs and examples for understand the past perfect and past perfect continuous. (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞😁☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜)

6. What was your favorite game or class activity this week?

The favorite part for me was where Javier skipped a line when he read in English, besides being able to practice our speeking more. o(*￣▽￣*)o( •̀ ω •́ )

7. Is there anything you didn’t like this week?

I like this class.  😍🥰

8. Comments & notes:

The practical classes are more entertaining.  😀😀😀

[mouseakins]

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The First, December 2016 I had the first seizure of my life. I woke up 20 minutes later in an ambulance thinking I must be in a *very* lucid dream. Nope. I had developed epilepsy. 🧠 ⚡️ So much of my artwork since that day has been inspired by this sudden and drastic change in my life. Indeed, art seems to be the best way to work through these experiences and the feelings that arise from them. 🧠 ⚡️ It is a strange thing to experience; A strange new life to live. • • • #art #artist ##artistsoninstagram #instaart #instaartist #epilepsyart #epilepsyartist #instagood #arttimelapse #watercolorandink #traumarecovery #traumaart #epilepsy #alteredstatesofconsciousness #tellingmystory #arttherapy https://www.instagram.com/p/B5zMfXeJDAX/?igshid=1gngq1tn7htko

[thewalnutlog]

Road to Recovery We all have injuries; physical, mental, emotional. We all heal eventually and as best we can. Saying something like “I’m on the road to recovery” implies this is a linear journey with an absolute beginning and a finite endpoint. After working my own way down that “road to recovery” following a car accident I realized this wasn’t the case. There is no finish line, no chance of being exactly like I was before the incident. Honestly in most ways I think I’m actually more. I’m better than what and who I was. In some ways however I’m less. I still can’t play piano for any length of time and can’t go to movies. Sensory overload is a real thing for me and I’m hesitant in certain environments. With this piece I wanted to show what that road really is. It’s a rough winding path that never leads to an end point but hopefully allows us to find our new normal. This path isn’t always easy, sometimes the healing process is more difficult than the original issue. Time does heal but that doesn’t mean we’re the same as before. That concept isn’t easy for others to understand at times, mostly because they assume that “recovered” means just that. I am healed, I’m not the same. For me that’s actually a much better place to be. For others it isn’t. The second piece in my “On the Inside” series. This is a collection of works that will tell stories, some are my own tales, others will be my interpretation of stories shared with me. The bowl is a Birch Plywood laminate with forced patina and nails. Base is Ipe. 21 inches tall and 12 inches wide. #wood #woodturner #woodturning #bowl #bowlmaker #bowlturner #bowlturning #lathe #latheart #art #artwork #artpiece #gallery #studio #conceptual #sculpture #statement #craftalliance #artistresidency #tellingmystory#stl #stlouis https://www.instagram.com/p/B0XSkoEgos3/?igshid=fpq1ded6zcf5

[lunapunamaantje]

[ 5:44pm, 8/08 ]

“Offline”

So yeah, I have been offline a while..

I’m sorry for that. Me is struggling with myself. Don’t know how to explain or how to write down my thoughts at the moment. Have been struggling a lot lately.

Trying to push myself up again, because honestly, everything is doing just fine.

[raemissigman]

The Art of Practice. For me it is a very real and very important part of my creative process. It’s through the simple act of practice that I learn to branch out, try new techniques, experiment with interesting color palettes and look at objects from my own unique perspective. This humble routine fills a void when I am at a loss for what to create. It helps to chisel away at the ideas that are always resting just below the surface of my creative brain. Find more creative goodness by tapping the link in my profile. #watercolor #watercolorillustration #watercolorart #pegandawl #pocketjournals #tinyart #dailyart #raemissigman #tinyartjournal #documentyourlife #artjournal #artjournaling #pocketjournal #tellingmystory #visualstorytelling #storytelling #traveljournal #allthingsbotanical #artmarksjournal #mixedmediaartmarks #botanicalart #pocketjournallove #creativewarmups #artjournalingmylife #mixedmediajournal #creativecommunity #colorcrush #artjournalspread #artjournalpages #artjournaleveryday https://www.instagram.com/p/CWDudK5LctZ/?utm_medium=tumblr

[relate2shan]

NEW POST!!! Part II of the Microagrressions series is finally out. Yay! This series is weaving my own story of subtle confrontations, how I deal with that stress, and how others have dealt with it in similar situations. I hope my story (Part I) and reflections (Part II) can help you or someone you know come to terms with similar experiences. So without further ado, check out the post on www.relate2shan.com. Much Luv! Shan #blogginglife #microagressions #relate2shan #tellingmystory #mentalwellness #mentalwellbeing (at Los Angeles, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/BtknBNpF390/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=9e1xzuaorlnb

[vxmadsen]

Send mig en besked. På fredag bliver alt der står tilbage lukket ned og taget ud af cirkulation. Alle køb går til funding på mit næste store projekt, min første spillefilm :) send mig en besked så ser vi på det. Du må have en dejlig dag :D #kunst #købkunst #plakat #film #filmmaking #moviemaking #movies #acting #actor #directing #writer #screenplay #writingscreenplay #moviemagic #story #storyteller #tellingmystory #moviescenes #audition #casting #castingcall #actorswanted #art #artwork #retirement https://www.instagram.com/p/CkDuD9trWox/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ckocreator-blog]

Am I the only writer trying to work on multiple stories at once? ✍🏾 #KnowYourStoryTellYourStory 👩🏾‍💻 #WorkInProgress 📖 #TellingMyStory ✍🏾 #WriterMode 👩🏾‍💻 #Authorship 📖 #LoveWhatIDo 🔥 #CertifiedLifeCoach 🎤 #MotivationalSpeaker ☕️ #EspressoMischief 👩🏾‍💼 #BlackGirlsRock 🎯 #OnAMission 💼 #BusinessWoman 💼 #Entrepreneur 👩🏾‍💼 #WomanEntrepreneur 👩🏾‍💼 #BlackOwnedBusiness 👧🏽 #RaisingACKO 👧🏽 #RaisingAChiefKidOfficer 👩🏾‍💼 #MotivatingMyself 👩🏾‍💼 #MotivatingOthers 👂🏾#ListenBeforeYouSpeak 👩🏾‍💼 #BlackVoice 👊🏾#TakeResponsibilityForYou 📱#iPhone6s (at Long Beach, California)

[theaquarianphoenix]

The lilac tree and the riding lawnmower

It is spring. And the smell in the air is the color of lavender. And plum. And white lace. The smell in the air is lilacs.

My grandma and grandpa’s yard in town is surrounded by lilac trees. They grow in tangles and twists and the tops of the branches fold over like giant caterpillars when the flowers are in bloom. When you sit at the kitchen table with the window open, their scent flows right through the screen on the window. Their perfume is so heavy and fragrant you can almost see it billowing in through the tiny holes of the screen.

My Gramps keeps his bird feeders right outside the kitchen window by the lilacs. I watch the birds get drunk on the flower-filled air. Their hopping and bobbing and fluttering and singing is more wild, more joyful, and more playful now than any other time of the year. It’s my favorite thing to sit at the kitchen table with Gramps and watch the birds. He teaches me about pine siskins and chickadees and grosbeaks and finches. Sometimes he gets a really special visitor, like a scarlet tanager or an indigo bunting.

The birds and my Gramps are a different story. One that requires its own, separate tale. One that I will tell another day. So, for now, let’s get back to the lilacs.

On our farm, we have a big, wide, open front yard. To the west are two lines of spruce trees. That my mom and dad planted several years ago. But the trees aren’t that tall yet. They will need many years before they grow big and their branches start to touch the sky.

My Gramps gave us a lilac tree a few weeks ago. I watched he and my dad plant it. Smack dab in the middle of our open front yard. I just know it’s going to grow big and bushy one day. And it will be filled with little songbirds that will make their nests in it. In the spring time, the lilacs will bloom and bend their purple arms toward the earth. When the wind makes them sway, they will look like a ballet dancer. All graceful and sinewy.

The spring rain has made the grass green and long in our yard. I am just learning to use the riding lawnmower. I have only used the riding mower once before and I am still not comfortable with all the controls. I am scared to use equipment and machines because I am afraid of doing something wrong. And, it seems, no matter how hard I try, I always do something wrong. Which means big, yucky, scary trouble. But, today the sun is shining brightly. And the air is warm. And my heart is open and a little less afraid.

I drive the mower up and down the yard in long, straight rows. Making sure I cut the grass evenly. My mom is using the push mower to mow in between the grove of spruce trees on the west edge of the yard.

I slow the mower to a crawl when I come to the recently planted lilac tree. I make a wide circle around it. Wow! That wasn’t so hard. I am feeling proud. And confident. I turn the mower around and ride it to the far back of the lawn, all the way to the ditch at the edge of the road. I turn around and head back to the front of part of the yard. Again, making sure to mow straight, even lines. With my growing confidence, I decide that I can circle the mower closer to the lilac tree this time.

I don’t really know what happens. But the wheel doesn’t turn when I want it to, and… in a second. Zoom! The lilac tree is gone! Destroyed. Butchered. Ground into a million little pieces. Beneath the blades of the lawnmower. In the mower’s wake, nothing but a pile of mulch.

Panic seizes me. Instantly. Although, somehow, in some knee jerk reaction, I’ve turned the mower around and I’m heading back toward the ditch. I’m blinded. By the irreversibility of what I’ve done. By the overwhelming fear of what will happen. When my dad sees the rubble.

So, I run. I jump off the mower. And I fly. Fast! I sprint for the spruce trees. And I press myself against their branches. Hiding. I crouch down to the ground and I grab my knees and pull them to my chest. I rock back and forth. Cradling myself. And cry.

As this is happening, the mower is still going. Unattended. Riding forward. On its own. With no rider. Heading straight for the ditch. The ditch filled with water. The ditch waiting to swallow it. And render it dead.

But my panic. My fear. Has me pinned. Nailed to the ground. I can do nothing. But hide in the trees. And watch it go.

Somewhere in all of this, the neighbor boy is at our house. He is five years older than me. And here with my older brother. I don’t know where they were. Or what they were doing. But seemingly, from nowhere, he is running for the lawnmower. I watch him. From my hiding place in the trees. Jump on the seat. And just before it hits the ditch, he shuts it down. He looks around wildly. Shocked. Bewildered. Even, bemused?

I run. From my cradle in the spruce boughs. To my mother. The tears streaming down my face. All fat and heavy against my cheeks. She sees me coming at her and stops her mowing. I tell her what happened. That I murdered the lilac tree with the riding mower. That I am so scared I am going to be in trouble. Big trouble. With my dad. That I’m sorry. So sorry. That it was an accident. That I didn’t mean to. That I was trying to do good. To get in close. I sob and sob. My body shaking. I can’t stop. She hugs me against her chest. She tells me she knows. That I am a good girl. That she will talk to my father. That I have punished myself enough.

She goes off. To find my father. To do her best. To placate this mess. To be my buffer. To try and protect me.

I don’t stick around. To wait for her to find my dad. My gut tells me, go! Make yourself scarce. So, I slink away. I disappear. I render myself invisible.

I don’t remember where I went. Or how long I stayed there.

Does it matter?

Later that evening, at the dinner table, my dad tells me, that I am lucky I didn’t harm myself. That he is disappointed and angry that I ran over the lilac tree. That I am not to drive the riding lawnmower again. I listen. With my head down. “Yes, Dad.” Understood.

And that is the end of it.

I have never driven a riding lawnmower since.

[jragmusic]

In the Studio working on music for a few different artists... In here catching a vibe to Jaguar, Nino Breeze, B. Moore, Anthony Hamilton, Johnny Gill, Jazz, Dru Hill, Keith Sweat, Tank, Conor Maynard, Caleb Hearn, Tyler Braden, & Keenan Té and had some good music in here cooking with amazing producers Lf Daze, MaxX MuziK, & Diioia Beats... #jRag #jRagMusic #MindScApe #MindScApeEntertainment #Entertainment #Music #NewMusic #HipHop #RandB #RevoltTv #Life #LifeStyle #People #Complex #ComplexMag #ComplexMusic #Love #LoveStory #TrueStory #TellingMyStory #Viral #Trending #Christmas #ChristmasEve #Holiday #Holidays (at Holland, Pennsylvania) https://www.instagram.com/p/CX35wSALTK9/?utm_medium=tumblr