After last Sunday’s email, there were so many supportive messages—we all have our private wounds. Still, I felt tender, vulnerable.

Last night, Monday night, getting in bed, I felt the discomfort of that 4-year-old girl. It was my signal to bring in some Internal Family Systems care.

First, sitting with the pillows just-so at my back, I listened to the meditation* as it led me through communicating with that hurt part. She wasn’t alone, I loved her, I would take care of her.

But when the meditation ended, I didn’t pull the earbuds from my ears and pull up the covers. I stayed there. And I imagined this…

.       .       .

She was still in her blood-stained powder blue snowsuit. I took her by the hand and walked her to the large colorful rug that sits between my front door and the entrance to my galley kitchen.

The kitchen floor was brick instead of wood, and the kitchen had expanded sideways, so it was now a rectangle with a large open space at the center, big enough for two side-by-side ping-pong tables.

I unzipped her snowsuit, pulled it from her, and tossed it to the middle of the kitchen floor. Then I set it on fire.

I didn’t light a match. I just wanted it to burn and it did. When it was done, there was nothing left. Not even any ash.

Next, I took the little girl to a bathing room (similar to my bathroom but much larger). There was a special child-sized tub, set on a platform so I wouldn’t need to bend over as I bathed her.

The girl wasn’t dirty, but I bathed her anyway, and I was especially careful when I washed her hair, made sure the water was just-right warm. The drying towel was soft and clean, warm from the dryer.

Then, I dressed her. Yellow butterflies on her underwear. A white long-sleeved T-shirt with a tiny white bow at the neck. Suede pants the color of caramel. A thick white sweater knit from yarn that felt like rabbit fur. Magenta, pink, and white-striped socks and a knit Kewpie doll hat to match, topped with a white fuzzy pompom.

I tried to hold her, but her little body tensed. She wasn’t used to being held. “Would you like to lie on the couch with your head in my lap, the way you used to at Grandma’s?” She nodded.

That is what we did, me sitting there, her lying beside me, me running my fingers gently through her curls. There she fell asleep, and so did I.

.       .       .

*The meditation I listened to, on the Plus plan. This is the free version.

Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for Roxie, and this photo from the day after I brought her home.