A Place Of My Own

Everyone of us should have their own space. It needn’t be a room. It can be a corner, a closet, or even outdoors. The purpose is to have your own quiet haven within the whirlwind of a busy household. A spot that soothes you physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally.

I had just such a room; I called it my “yoga room”. I took great care in decorating that room from top to bottom, with input from noone else but me. The criteria for every single item that went into the room was that I had to love it–alot. It took 3 years to finish that room and when it was done, I cried tears of happiness, gratitude and accomplishment.

Months later, my health finally forced me to resign from my job as a litigation attorney, from any job really. It was then that my space became more than a mere space, it became to me, a sanctuary. Although the word sanctuary is typically used in reference to holy places, it is synonymous with haven, retreat and refuge. My sanctuary became my “safe room”. In it, I could laugh, cry, pray, journal, dream, cry some  or none of the above. The choice was mine to make.

My sanctuary served me well for years, but then I had to let it go. My always healthy mother suffered a major health condition, after which, she had to live with me and my husband. My sanctuary became her haven for healing, her home within our home and it appears to serve her as well as it served me all those years. Sometimes, I miss my retreat, my haven, my sanctuary, but not for long, because I still have my mother. A place of my own can be replaced, my mother cannot.

The photo above is one taken by me of my favorite desk and computer that I use to write my posts to this blogs and to explore the internet.  Yet, it has neither the look or the feel of my “yoga room”, but that is alright by me. I am confident that I will find another place to call my very own, but in the meantime, I am carrying my sanctuary in my heart.

Blessings and love, lydia marie

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Baby Steps

Hallelujah! Today is the first day since my last post that my body has not been wracked with indiscriminate pain. No pity party here, just the facts. For the past 4 or 5 days, I have been engaged in an all too familiar battle–with fibromyalgia and migraines and the unyielding pain that both cause and the price they’ve cost me. This is a post about that struggle.

First came the migraines. They have been with me so long that I can no longer remember exactly when they began. I can’t even remember a time when they were not there-they’ve always been there. (For anyone who hears the word “migraine” and assumes ‘headache,’ please find accurate information for yourself and others at http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/migraine-headache/DS00120 ). The fibromyalgia came much later and for some time was the mystery illness, but it has been the most devastating of the two. If you are unfamiliar with  fibromyalgia, go to the National Fibromyalgia Association,  http://www.fmaware.org/site/PageServer?pagename=fibromyalgia.  I have allowed both to orchestrate and direct my life for far too long.

The duo became my mental, physical and emotional wardens, and I, their unwitting prisoner. They kept me from events, people, hobbies, and later my active attorney status,  making it impossible for me to commit to the very things that make life enjoyable. Nevertheless, for over a year, I’ve wanted to create a blog, both as a means of documenting “me” and my incessant seeking, and a way to write since I can’t actively practice law at this time. Yet, my desire to write goes back much further.

As a little girl, I wrote a little book by hand.  I can’t recall the topic, only the desire to write. Back then, it was no more than the silly dream of a poor, little, girl from a broken home–to escape the world in which I lived. Over the years, I’ve searched in all the wrong places for my authentic voice.You know, that “voice” that in the inimitable words of Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart when trying to define hardcore porno, ” I know it when I see it.” Of course, I am not referring to the perhaps more scintillating topic of pornography, but the more prosaic ‘inner voice’ that elicits a sense of familiarity and home. For some of us, including yours truly, the feeling is significantly more profound. Over the years, especially due to events that I will speak to another time, I’ve out grown the voice that I worn all these decades. It just doesn’t suit me anymore; if it ever did.

It’s like continuing to wear a pair of exquisite, outwardly beautiful and coveted, shoes. They are the perfect style, an impossible to find color, BUT, they are now a half-size too small and they hurt like hell–from the moment I put them on my foot to the glorious moment that I can take them off. Naturally, when I tried them on in the store, they seemed to fit like a dream, but now, they just don’t fit. When you uncover your true voice, a voice that fits you and no other, you know it when you feel it. You slip into it, just like a perfect pair of shoes (hey, I can’t help it if I love shoes). Every fiber in your body awakens and begins to fire on all cylinders and the fit–it’s yours without a doubt. Maybe I’ll find that voice here, maybe I won’t, but I can’t find out unless I try. This time, I am not letting ‘my wardens’ get in my way.

I would be a liar if I claimed to have broken free of my long-time mental prison. No, I am what is known in the correctional institutional parlance, (I know this through my role as a former attorney for the State of Texas, representing state institutions, including its’ many prisons.) as a “trusty,” a well-behaved and trustworthy [prisoner] to whom special privileges are granted. Little by little, I will free myself from this duo, but for now, I am baby-stepping my way back into my life. This blog is one of those baby steps.

Blessings and love,