Posted on by palmtreemomma

My Mother’s Daughter

Have you met my mother's daughter? 
hair pulled tight to keep 
ears from sticking 
out too far
slicked back with
dippitydoo
long skirts over banged up knees
that preferred to kneel
in the dirt
by the creek
run away
by herself
find the meadow of flowers
tucked behind the woods
where her voice could roar and 
bounce across the hills
sing songs that were silly
and dance in the dirt

The one who was a little 
too much
so they hushed her with rules
and set her up to fail if
she opened her mouth
but gave her a place of 
belonging
just for her
IF
she was quiet and
submissive
go to church but
not speak in it
bring casseroles and 
jello cakes
in colorful dishes
leave them on the table
for others to consume.
give her body
scrub the toilets
hold the babies
wash the mud and dirt 
off the floor and
the shoes
and the clothes
pull that wild curly hair 
 tighter
pin it into a bun
hide it!
all the wild glory
behind a piece of pleated cloth
cover those once-skinned knees 
with pantyhose please
don't let your skin be seen
give up
the things you want
sacrifice with joy
give your life away
but hold on
to purity and
keep those curves covered
work harder, don't stop
wipe the tears of those around you
but hide yours
it's not okay to need  or want
when others are suffering
sit here for family photo
hide the disaster that lurks
beneath the picture
perfect smiles pasted
over mental health that is rotting
turn the lights brighter to 
cover the darkness that holds us
clenches us in a grip so tight
hold the one who
wants to die
fix her
all by yourself
because you have god
and that is all you need
besides there is no one
who sees you 
all alone
carrying a load too big
staggering
stumbling
all for crumbs of praise
recognition that comes
for good girls who
are too much 
so they must
give too much

Have you met my mother's daughter? 
with the load so big it would crush her
if she tried to lay it down
her only way out then
to just keep going
keep saving others since
she cannot save herself
from a load of being
too much
so she crosses continents
and gives her life away
because there was too much
 grief to stay 
in the place where
my mother's daughter
had to grow herself up alone
be her father and her mother
knead the bread and 
be the bread
until one day
she was all used up
and the sun no longer shown
on her inner landscape
and she had nothing left 
with which to pretend
that it was light 
and she was all right
so she fell
down
down
down
under the load she had
carried for far too long
and it crushed her
split her
into
a thousand pieces

And then
Glory!
she found her banged up knees 
in the beautiful dirt 
by the creek
she found her hands
in the meadow of flowers
tucked behind the woods
and there was her voice!
roaring and bouncing across the hills
singing songs that were silly
and there were her feet
dancing in the dirt
and when she looked into the stream
it stilled as a mirror
and she saw
finally saw
my mother's daughter
as she was always meant to be
and there the wind caressed her
tumbled her curls round her shoulders
and under the light 
of a sumptuous moon
she found what they were always afraid of
she found her whole self
her too-much not-enough self
that was actually just right
so she stepped fully into her skin
all of it
and the sky dripped 
giant tears of joy 
while the hills laughed
with relief at
the sheer beauty
of a woman
who finally 
stepped into
her whole skin.

When I was 5 years old, we rented a little house next to a pig farm. Beyond the yard and the pig pen was a lovely little creek. Behind it, the woods. I would venture off, exploring, every chance I had. One day I discovered a meadow of wild spring flowers, tucked into a corner of the woods. Some of my earliest moments of happiness were there in those woods.

Time passed and we moved. From house to house. State to state. I was born a granddaughter of a preacher. Later I became the daughter of one. I grew up in a tight community. But I also grew up alone. Learned how to hide the un-health of others. Carried burdens that were too heavy for a child. Some things are not yet speak-able because, contrary to the stories some tell about me, I really do love and care for my family.

But this poem has bubbled to the surface and wants to be given wings. So I release it to the winds that watched me step fully into my own skin. All of it. And know it will be taken to my sisters who still believe they are too-much, not-enough.

And the next time the wind roars past your ears, don’t be fooled. It’s never just the wind. It’s another one of us stepping fully into our own skin.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Truth Wrapped in Dreams

If you’ve been following me for any length of time, you’ll know that dreams are important to me. I find they alert me to the things I need to pay attention to. They bring clarity and understanding. Fresh ways of seeing things that help me to navigate difficult situations during my wakeful hours. Opportunities to bring healing to painful events in the past. They help me to find my voice and bring me the courage to refuse to be erased.

I’m a bit jealous of people who can just go to bed and sleep for hours and hours when they feel depressed or overwhelmed. I am not a great sleeper at the best of times, and when I am feeling depressed or anxious, it’s harder than ever to get deep sleep.

One thing I do have going for me, however, is that I dream a lot. And when I start to pay attention to my dreams, it seems as if I dream more often. There have been a number of compelling dreams that have ended up in my dream journal this year, but the one I’m about to share is one of the most vivid and entertaining of them all. And it is so very telling.

The amusement park

In my dream, I returned to a faith community whose leader was responsible for some of my religious trauma. When I arrived, a friend welcomed me, yet, when we tried to find a place to sit, there was no space for me. Even though my friend easily found a place for herself. The daughter of the leader refused to look at me, rendering me invisible. Various creatures filled my dream, both human and animal. But what struck me was the feeling of shame I bore, even though I had done nothing wrong. I found it difficult to look the humans in the eye. Yet, later in the day, I saw some of them either stoned or drunk on the floor. I marveled to myself that hours earlier, they had been the ones who were deemed “holy” and acceptable.

There was a growing sense of danger. Buildings broke apart and were swept away by an unseen force, yet I didn’t leave until I was attacked and bitten by an animal. When I dialed 911, they thought I was at an amusement park. I made it clear that, no, I am at “the church” and I need to be picked up. Now! When he arrived, the first responder thought I was a reporter and wanted to drop me in the special section outside the hospital set up to treat reporters. Clearly, the catastrophe was a big one and was gathering attention.

the reporter

Let’s face it. The church has become something akin to an amusement park where the cost of entry is high and just might be costing more than we think.

Perhaps I am a reporter. One who was almost erased. One who was used and then cast aside.

There is not enough space here to list all the ways this leader and those who worshiped him both wounded and silenced me. Discouraging me from seeking mental health help when I was on the verge of breaking down. Suggesting we may have sinned when my husband and I lost a baby. Denied days of rest that were desperately needed. Shutting down our voices when we suggested that certain policies would be harmful to people we cared deeply about.

During a large gathering of an organization he presided over, this leader brought to the stage a young man who he celebrated as the first volunteer of this particular organization. My husband and I looked at each other in shock, since we had just completed years of volunteering for this very organization. I felt both humiliated and erased in one fell swoop.

the body’s wisdom

When I reflect back on those years, what strikes me most is that I was not allowed to listen to the wisdom of my body. Instead, the body was seen as evil. Not to be trusted. Even basic human needs for rest were controlled and limited. I became so exhausted and burned out that I developed compassion fatigue. But I was expected to keep going.

The ironic thing is, I can remember the leader quoting the verse about the heart being desperately wicked and who can know it. Using it to prove that we can’t trust ourselves. Our gut. Yet we were supposed to trust the things he said. And people did. They responded to his words like eager puppies, desperate for drops of affection from their master.

Refuse to be erased

This has been a difficult post for me to write and I realize this dream has stirred up things that I probably did not have the energy to fully process until now. I found myself starting and stopping more often than usual. It’s one of the hottest days of the year so far, yet I have been drawn outdoors again and again. To plant my bare feet in the grass, walk the backbone of Mother Earth and take in sweet breaths of her warm air. Bare toes curling over blades of grass as I remember the pain and disappointment I felt. First of being so controlled. And then erased. My body is showing me the way to process this old grief.

And the beautiful thing about the human body is that it knows when it is being mistreated or erased, sometimes before our minds comprehend it. There is great danger in any religion or organization that teaches this knowledge as a dangerous thing, rather than the ancient wisdom that it is.

but i refuse to be erased

In my dream, my body took much abuse and betrayal before I was ready to get myself out of the situation. And while this parallels my real life in so many ways, and I wish I had “dialed 911” sooner, I am grateful to be where I am. The tent of wounded reporters is far safer and more restful than the amusement park that the church has become.

I know there are many others like me, who have been controlled and then erased by the church. If this strikes a cord, know that you are not alone. Like the butterfly from an earlier dream, who pulled herself out of the mud and flew across the ocean with giant holes in her wings, the muck cannot hold you down. Keep beating your wings. We will not be erased. We will display the holes that have ravished our wings – and we will fly anyway.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Almost Erased

In my introductory post, Torn Wings, I wrote about my dream of a butterfly. A graceful creature I saw who pulled herself out of the mud and muck, and flew across the ocean. The light shown through massive holes in her wings, and yet, she flew. I knew she was both me as an individual, as well as all of us who give voice to the feminine. That beautiful part of the divine that those in power have tried to erase.

In my dream, I watched in amazement as she flew bravely out over the water. With each beat of her wings she put distance between herself and those who had riddled her wings with holes. She carried a power that shattered the belief that the feminine is more fragile. Weaker. Less than. Something controllable.

Today I carry her on my shoulder. Nestled close to my heart. Her wings have healed and she has found her name. Mukti.

Becoming Free

Mukti is heard in many languages across Southeast Asia and carries with it the idea of setting or becoming free. What began as a dream on a hot summer night in Bangladesh, a few months before my husband came out, has become my Mukti, a symbol of hope and healing. Of both setting and becoming free.

Her journey is far from finished. I have her on my shoulder to remind me of where we have been and where we are going. As the artist knit threads of ink together beneath my skin, I did what she taught me. Breathe through the pain. Slowly. In and out. Again and again.

Finding our Mukti

Many us feel exhausted and brokenhearted today. As if our wings have just been riddled with fresh holes. What the Supreme Court did today shows me that the Patriarchy is afraid. This isn’t about life; it’s all about control. If it weren’t so heartbreaking, it would almost be laughable. This grasp at control. But the way of the feminine is not about control. It is about love and equality.

We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.

This movement of beating wings has grown massive over the past few decades. And the Patriarchy is terrified. They are trying desperately to control us. And if they can’t control us, to erase us.

The butterfly I saw pulling herself out of the muck and flying out across the ocean, was for me that day. But today it is for all of us. We can’t be controlled and we will not be erased.

We will grieve for today. Hold each other and weep. But this is not the end. The muck cannot hold us down. We’ve pulled ourselves out before and we will do it again. Keep beating our wings until we find our Mukti once again. We refuse to be erased by showing the holes that have been put into our wings – and flying anyway.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

The Feminine Within

I am finding that the greatest challenge of being the straight spouse in a mixed-orientation marriage has little to do with my husband’s sexuality. Rather, it is rooted in my own insecurities and feelings of self-worth.

Feelings nurtured in a childhood lived under the demands of the patriarchy. A childhood where the little girl in me ceased to exist at a very young age. Instead of being nurtured, she quickly learned to nurture.

One could argue that this little girl was naturally gifted to nurture and was only stepping into her god-given role. Yet little girls, regardless of their gifts, need to be mothered. Nurtured. Protected. Given space to dream and try on…
clothes
styles
attitudes
beliefs.

when the feminine is flattened


Little girls are not designed to be poured into a replicable mold. To fill the same role as that of their mother before them. And their grandmother before that. When little girls are required to pick up maternal roles while their chest is still flat, something in their internal landscape is in danger of forever remaining flat and undeveloped.


Little girls are made to dream and dance. But when they are taught to serve from sunrise to sunset, to keep those around them happy and fed, their dreams quickly die and the only dance they perform is learning to anticipate the needs of others and to meet those needs before they are spoken.

silenced


I have struggled for a very long time with the words I want to say. Need to say. I fear I will bring shame and pain to my mother if I voice them. In her book Discovering the Inner Mother, Bethany Webster says,


“Many daughters equate silence about their pain as a form of loyalty to their mothers…. Our compassion for our mothers should never eclipse compassion for ourselves.”


So I am breaking a bond of silence because I must be loyal to myself. If I am to be fully whole, and find my dance again, I must do all I need to do to show compassion for myself.


I love my mother deeply and wish the same for her. I look back over the generations and see how the women in our family carry this wound deep within our DNA.

daughters who are mothers


As a young girl, my grandmother thrived in school. It was her safe, happy place. She loved words more than anything and was a finalist at more than one spelling bee. But tragedy struck when she was barely a teenager and her mother died. Her father, an Amish farmer, had no choice but to take her out of school and have her care for her baby sister. She found herself cleaning, doing laundry, and cooking for her father and a table full of brothers. As a young girl, my grandmother raised herself and her baby sister while figuring out how to keep a family of farmers happy and fed.


My grandmother was an incredibly resilient woman. Yet she had a deep mother wound herself and did not know how to fully embody being a mother to her daughters.


And my mother, having not been fully mothered and nurtured herself, looked to her young daughter to give her the nurturing she craved. I learned, at a very young age, how to be a safe space for the adults in my life. How to listen and hold, and how to be both surrogate spouse and therapist. Like my grandmother before me, by the time I was 14, I was cooking up to 3 meals a day, doing the laundry, cleaning, and caring for my brothers. Unlike her, I stayed in school and also took on a part-time job, sharing 80% of my earnings with my parents.

The Perfect daughter

To anyone in the Patriarchal community, I was the perfect daughter. Groomed to care for those around me and denied my own dreams and longings. Inside, however, I was dying a slow and painful death.

I quickly learned that even my basic, developmental needs were too much. All that mattered were the needs of those around me. In fact, the more I squashed my own inner longings and needs for affirmation and nurturing, the more I was noticed and praised. I share my grandmother’s love for words, so it makes sense that words convey feelings of love to me more than actions. I would do anything to hear words of affirmation spoken to me.

And I did. I worked my fingers to the bone for tiny scraps of affirmation. Because I was only noticed and praised when I sacrificed what I wanted and worked hard to meet the physical and emotional needs of those around me. So I worked harder. And harder still.


I could write a complete volume on the journey from that “good little girl” to the fierce and feisty woman I have become. And perhaps I will do that someday.


But I can’t wait that long to say what burns inside of me. Words that must be spilled onto the page today or I will go up in flames for the heat of it.

the feminine within you


No matter your gender, if you were raised under the Patriarchy, there is a feminine part of you that needs you to sit down and have a good listen. We are all a blend of the masculine and the feminine and yet we have been brought up in a culture that praises and empowers the masculine while silencing, controlling, and shrinking the feminine. This has not only hurt women; men suffer deeply as well.


I would go as far as to say that many of the problems we face are either a result of, or amplified by, the hatred of the feminine. From the war in Ukraine to the war on feminine bodies, the masculine need to control and dominate is making itself known.

hungry for life


But the little girl inside of us is not concerned about power and control. She is hungry for life. Full of love. Concerned for safety. This is why she cuddles babies. Speaks tenderly to tiny kittens. Picks wildflowers for the window sill. She is creator, not taker. And the earth itself heals when we listen to her.


She does not allow us to live in hatred. For ourselves or for our enemies. She is the embodiment of love and inclusion. Equality is the dance floor and she moves with grace.


If you are still long enough, you may hear her. If you can clear the clutter of your mind, and pause your race to the elusive top, you may get a glimpse of her.


We can stop looking for her in other women, in projects, in more work. She’s not in movies or books or famous people we admire and chase after. She’s in us. If we are alive, there is still time to find her. She held us before our mother’s arms found us, and she will hold us long after our mothers are gone. She carries the salve to heal our wounds. But this healing balm cannot be taken by force. We must be still and lean in before that healing balm is given.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

When It’s Hard to Rest

When I was a young girl, it was quite common to hear grown ups tell me things like, “You work like a horse!” Growing up in rural Ohio, where it was common to see Amish farmers plowing their fields with big and strong work horses, the phrase made sense to me.

The phrase, meant as a compliment, told me that I was very capable of hard work. That there was much value in my ability to work hard. It told me I was admired for it.

But there was a dark side to this compliment. One that I did not see for a very long time. Like a dandelion seed blown by the wind, it found a place to settle. Deep in the soil of my ego, a story took root and began to grow.

the problem with work

One day, in my early teens, it pushed its head through the surface and allowed itself to be seen. On this day, when told that I work like a horse, instead of feeling complimented, I burst into tears.

I didn’t want to be a work horse anymore. Strong and capable but useful only in working the fields. I knew I was a very valuable worker but I longed to be valued for more than the free labor I gave to my family and community. The problem with work is that it set me up to be admired for the wrong things.

Truth be told, I was balancing a lot. I got up early every morning and made breakfast for the family before school. Did school, homework, much of the laundry, cooking and cleaning and had a part time job. This is not to fault my family in anyway. Nobody made me do these things. I chose to take on more and more, for complicated reasons.

Finding it hard to rest

Fast forward a few decades and I found myself on the edge of burn out. A place that was becoming more and more familiar to me. I’d find myself dangling on the edge, but somehow climb up and work some more. Then back to the edge again.

The problem with work became a problem with rest. In fact, it was almost impossible to really rest. I’d eagerly plan vacations for the family and the thought of them would keep me going. But when in the lovely places, I would find it impossible to be at rest for more than a short time. I’d feel this urge to put my book down and go find some chore that could be done.

It was like needing a hit. Finding some manual labor gave me something that calmed me inside so that I could go and read again.

So I have a very complicated relationship with work. Truth is, I do get a lot of satisfaction from hard work. I love to clean. Do the laundry. Cook meals. Organize things. I find it incredibly hard to sit still. It’s not long until I feel my body becoming agitated. Like I will explode if I sit here another minute. Give a bucket and a scrub brush. Or, better yet, baking supplies and an empty kitchen and my heart rate slows and my thoughts calm.

when the body screams to get attention

Then one summer, about a year and half ago, I woke up with pain in my shoulder. This felt much different than the stress pain I tend to carry in my shoulders. This pain was somehow connected to my arm and movement. I didn’t think too much of it at first. It wasn’t horrible but it just kind of stuck around. I couldn’t sleep on my side anymore. Soon I couldn’t do things like deep clean my kitchen. Or rake leaves. Or make applesauce. Eventually I couldn’t chop vegetables for dinner without being in pain the next day.
So I finally went to the doctor. Then the specialist. Then the physical therapist. Turns out I have both biceps and rotator cuff tendonitis. And a long road to healing.

The problem with work is that I just couldn’t keep up with it anymore. My body had to go into full blown screaming mode before I listened. But I’m listening now.

And one thing I keep going back to is the girl who burst into tears because she longed to be seen and valued for who she was, not for what she did. She wanted to be more than free labor. She had hopes and dreams, longings and needs that were not safe to say aloud.

I understand her tears. In the wee hours of the morning, when I can’t sleep because of the pain, she gets my full attention. And she’s shown me some pretty enlightening things.

truth be told

The problem with work is that I will probably always love it. Find deep satisfaction in sparkling surfaces, freshly folded laundry and the smell of homemade sourdough bread. There is something sacred in those things for me. And I embrace that.

But what I have had to reject is the idea that my worth comes from those things. Which has been hard to separate from because for years I was only noticed when I was working hard. I heard words of affirmation that centered around the work I did. It seemed as if my place of belonging, in both family and religious community, centered around my ability to work. And that is a problem.

Another problem with work is that it made me feel safe. My subconscious self quickly became aware of the fact that while doing hard manual labor, I was safe from the things that were my trauma. No one bothered my while I was working. And I got praised for it. It was a win win situation. No wonder it was hard for me to stop. I literally had no idea how to rest. In fact, rest was not really a safe thing. So work became my identity.

Until my body just couldn’t do it anymore. I am grateful for this pain because it has brought me to a wide open path of possibilities. While I’ve been working for a long time on seeing my worth apart from my work, the physical limitations of my body have broken open a space for something new.

choosing to rest

For one thing, it’s brought about a career change that allows me to work from anywhere in the world. Austin has been completely supportive and has helped us find a solution that takes this weight of my shoulders. Literally. We have outsourced fulfillment for our business because I physically just could not haul those boxes anymore. We have contracted with a very capable team in Chicago to ship out our orders. And, thanks to technology, I can answer questions and email invoices from anywhere that has cell service or WiFi.

I’m currently testing out my new freedom. Honoring my need for green vistas, sunshine and rest by working out of a little cottage in North Carolina for a couple of weeks. I find I can type up orders and answer emails on a screened in porch that hides behind a giant bougainvillea, just as well as when sitting behind my desk in Ohio. Maybe even better.

Is it still hard for me to rest? Yes, sometimes it is. But I am practicing it. Just as I am practicing listening to the longings of the little girl who found her salvation in work. Even then she was intuitive enough to know she longed for more.

Want to hear more? Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Codependency and Religion

I had to have a little talk with myself recently. I was doing fine. Felt good about things. But everyone around me seemed to be in a crisis. Melting down. Dealing with some pretty big stuff. It wasn’t long before I wasn’t doing so well. Because I let myself get pulled in. I began to carry their heaviness with me.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s important to be able to feel with others. To be a support person that is compassionate. But having lived so many years in an unhealthy codependent relationship, it doesn’t take much for me to get pulled into unhealthy old habits.

I had to pull myself aside and verbalize to the little girl that is always and forever a part of who I am, that she doesn’t need to carry their heavy things. She doesn’t need to fix anything for them. It’s okay for her to live her own life right now. To find things that make her happy even if those around her are not. She does not need them to be okay in order to be okay herself.

what codependency can look like

In a codependent relationship, one person looks to the other to provide care or support that should come from within, or from a therapist, doctor, or someone else. Or it could be something so unrealistic that no human could ever provide. Whatever the case, the other person may need to be needed. Or simply need them to be okay. So he does whatever it takes, to help them be okay. In this way, they both need each other to be needy. They feed off each other’s neediness. It may “work” but it’s dysfunctional and damaging.

Far too often, these unhealthy relationships are fashioned and sustained in tight-knit religious communities. People praise the caregiver for their sacrifice, uphold them as a model of love and service. To the point where they completely forget that their life matters too. That their hopes and dreams have meaning and are worth pursuing.

When religion encourages the starving of the human soul in order to “serve” another, religious trauma merges with emotional trauma and something beautiful in the human psyche is chopped into bits and thrown out as garbage. Divine brushstrokes meant to invoke smiles and joy are equated with selfishness.

Children as caregivers

I’ve been a caregiver for as long as I can remember. I needed to be needed and I needed those around me to be okay. So I did everything I could to help them be okay. Others praised and admired me for it. In fact, I don’t think I was noticed much unless I was serving others.

In an article on Children as Caregivers, LeAne Austin says

Children generally tend to be self-focused. With the addition of the illness or disability, that focus necessarily and abruptly changes to one of helping others. Rather than indulging in their usual enjoyable activities, they may decline invitations for age-appropriate activities because they need to “go home and help mom” or whoever they are assisting at home. This increased sense of responsibility, though somewhat overdeveloped due to the unique situation in which they have been placed, overtakes the drive to seek personal enjoyment.

LeAne Austin

Learning to be a child

I didn’t know how to be a child. And, quite honestly, my faith community praised me for it. So I sacrificed more. I gave up things I wanted so everyone else in my life could be happy. Eventually, I equated god’s love with needing to sacrifice. Divine love meant pain.

It’s taken years of therapy and healing, to fully realize that my life truly matters. That my longings, hopes, and dreams have divine sparks in them instead of selfishness. My worth has absolutely nothing to do with my service and sacrifices. I no longer equate god’s love with needing to sacrifice. It’s more like needing to bake or laugh. Walk in the leaves or climb a mountain.

So, somewhere in the middle of everyone else having a crisis, I stepped back. I asked everyone leave for a while. Built a fire and sat outside with a cup of coffee and a stack of books. I reclined in my lawn chair and watched the leaves tango under an indigo sky. I called someone I loved who understood my feelings completely. And the wind whispered my name as it scampered by. It danced with the smoke as what was old and useless burned up. It blew the mosquitos away and whistled ever so softly round the corners of the house. God was in the wind and in the fire, in the clay of my coffee cup and pages of my book. In all that was lovely and breathtaking, even in me.

Maybe I still equate god’s love with needing to sacrifice – the bullshit and the codependency. The belief system that led me to slaughter things that were lovely inside of me. Burn it all down till there are no acts of service to admire me for. No sacrifices to bring me praise. Just a curly-haired barefoot girl with a heart that is kind and a dream to explore this beautiful world.

Contact me here to be added to my mailing list. You can also find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Daughter of the Earth

Daughter of the earth
Child of the soil
If she fades in the growing darkness
drops her leaves as the days grow short
Why wouldn’t I?

All summer long
I push through the cobwebs
of her morning eyelids
to see what she sees when
she first opens her eyes
The stained glass windows of
her emerald sanctuary
sparkle in the dazzling glory of
summer sunshine
I sat in the moss that covers her backbone
and watch the wind
gently rustle her hair
I feel life oozing from her every pore
All summer long
I lose myself
in the glory of
Mother Earth

Her eyelids stay shut longer and longer
The signs of her life
her vibrancy
fades
drops
falls
from trees and bushes
Bright green fades to brown.
As I walk in her forests
the trees whisper
“We’re tired,” they say
and the leaves nod their agreement
“All summer long we’ve worked,
making food to nourish and grow ourselves
and give shade to humankind
But now it is time to rest”


I know it is true
Feel it in my bones
Weariness and the need for rest
I pass a dying corn field and long
to lay in the center and return
to the mother who birthed me long ago
Autumn rains drip down her cheeks
and mingle with my tears
as I grieve the lessening of the light
the coming days of clouds
The descending darkness
We bury the green to make room for the cold
An unfair trade and every part of me resents it
I feel as old and tired as the tree
with the hollowed insides
Decades of creating nourishment
for the hungry around me
but never finding my own autumn of rest
have left me depleted
Scooped out
Empty

Now color fades on me
Strength a fragment of what it once was
but where does a daughter of earth go
to find her own autumn?
To fall into a pile of her sisters
and do nothing but rest
Close her kitchen and feed no one
But the little girl inside of her

Daughter of the earth
Child of the soil
If she fades in the growing darkness
drops her leaves as the days grow short
Why wouldn’t I?

daughter of the earth

I struggle to enjoy fall the way many seem to. I love the vibrant colors of fall and the cooler days, but there’s something about knowing the dark days of winter are almost here, that leaves me a little numb and I’m unable to completely absorb the sheer beauty of fall.

This year I even decided that I am going to fully embrace the season. Soak up every bit of color and crunch. Revel in sweatshirts and bonfires, apple dumplings and candlelight. But even on the most gorgeous of days, when so many things were going good and it felt like I had no reason to feel sad, I still felt this weight pressing in. Things that normally had me up and raring to go, felt like too much. Logically, it made no sense.

I kept pushing through it because, well, we were slammed at work and there was so much to do. When I let myself slow down and really pay attention, is when it dawned on me.

It’s my SAD kicking in. According to the Cleveland Clinic, Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is depression that gets triggered by a change in seasons, usually when fall starts. It usually starts and ends at the same time every year. I don’t remember dealing with it when we lived in the tropics. But as I look back over the recent years back in Ohio, I see a pattern. This year, while it caught me off guard, it didn’t surprise me.

child of the soil

I feel my body is actively grieving the loss of light, warmth, and green. There’s nothing to do but let the grief come and roll with it. Even on the days when the sun is still shining and the leaves are glorious.

Grief does not make logical sense. It has a life and cycle of it’s own. As an ISFJ on the Myers Briggs personality type, I experience life through my senses. Feeling warmth, seeing green, smelling the earth are all so life-giving to me. I dislike wearing shoes and love nothing more than feeling the earth beneath my bare toes. I utterly hate being cold. And cloudy, dull days with no green on the horizon make me not want to live.. I’m not being dramatic. It’s just how it is.

I’m deeply connected to the earth. Feel her changes in my bones. While I know that this will pass, as all seasons do, I am giving space for all that I feel right now.

Daughter of the earth. That’s who I am.

I realize the mention of “not wanting to live” may have been triggering…if so, there’s help.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Call 800-273-TALK (8255)
If you or someone you know is in crisis—whether they are considering suicide or not—please call the toll-free Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) to speak with a trained crisis counselor 24/7.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline connects you with a crisis center in the Lifeline network closest to your location. Your call will be answered by a trained crisis worker who will listen empathetically and without judgment. The crisis worker will work to ensure that you feel safe and help identify options and information about mental health services in your area. Your call is confidential and free.

Want to hear more?


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.



Posted on by palmtreemomma

Speaking Your Truth

One of the bravest things I’ve ever done was to sit down with my abusers and confront them with the truth. Of what it was like for me. What it made me feel like. What it had done to me.

Confrontation does not come easily to me. Speaking what is on my mind can take a lot of effort. I’m too nice. Too kind. Nice to the point of taking abuse and misuse and somehow believing it an act of service. A sacrifice god was calling me to make. As if my life, needs, wants, and dreams didn’t matter and were selfish to dwell on.

It wasn’t until I was in my 20s, and had physically left the situation, that I realized just how toxic it was. How harmful to my being. That what had gone down was wrong. So very, very wrong.

how the church normalizes abuse

The church taught me that being nice and serving others was more important than allowing myself to be safe. It left me alone to deal with responsibilities that no child should have to deal with. It created a community of belonging that was, in fact, isolating. While it painted the picture of a loving and safe place, it created zero space for victims to be aware that what was happening was not normal. That they could and should speak up.

It was a silent community, where belonging was purchased with silence. Always be nice. Keep serving. Don’t make waves. As long as the church coddles abusers and hushes the victims, it will remain a toxic place. One that isn’t safe for victims and, for those who do speak up, that confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

When I began to wake up to the truth that my life matters. That the things my soul had always longed for were, indeed, good things. That it wasn’t my job to take care of those who had wronged me. It was like straining against the cocoon, working with all my might to tear open a tiny hole and begin to slip out. Unsure of what was outside that cocoon, yet knowing I could no longer stay inside. Hope began to fill my tiny bruised wings. I had never flown before. Been told all my life it was dangerous. Yet there I was. Tiny little broken thing, that knew it would die if it did not fly. Slowly but surely I began to find the words to wrap around the pain and slowly pull it to the surface. Let the light fall on it fully.

Abuse and trauma

Oh, to grasp the breadth of your pain and suffering! To even start to acknowledge the truth of abuse and trauma is a frightening thing. If this is where you are at, dear one, stay strong and carry on. Stay with the process. The only way out is through. You cannot bypass grief. Steady on. You will find the path through.

One thing about abuse and trauma is that it muddles the brain. We get stuck in toxic places. Not because we want to be there, but because we don’t know how to move on. This is not our fault. The younger we are when we experience any form of trauma, the more likely it is that we will come to believe that toxic places are normal and must be survived. If we have had no one to tell or show us otherwise, we believe that it’s our fault and maybe it will stop if we try harder. To be kind. To be perfect. Or whatever else is required. Our response to pretty much everything in life becomes skewed. And we have no real idea how to make it stop.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the night I sat down and spoke my truth. I was still a tiny broken thing, that knew it would die if it did not fly. A bundle of nerves. I had thought long and hard about what I would say. Talked and wept for hours with my husband, who gave me a solid shoulder to lean on and the strength I did not have alone. What I did not realize, is that confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

when confrontation is re-traumatizing

I honestly don’t remember too many details of that night. The confrontation was re-traumatizing in many ways and I know I have blocked much of it out. Some of the details are fuzzy but I know I gathered my courage and spoke my truth. I didn’t back down. Didn’t change my story to make them feel good. Didn’t take my words back and replace them with a nicer narrative. I stuck with the truth for the first time in my life.

It. Was. Not. Well. Received.

Don’t ever change the truth of your narrative to make someone else feel better.

In fact, it wasn’t received at all. It hit a wall and was re-formed into nasty little darts that were thrown back at me. But I stuck with the truth.

Don’t ever change the truth of your narrative to make someone else feel better. Looking back I’m pretty darn proud of that younger version of myself. I may not have had the perfect words to use. And I definitely blocked some of it from my memory. But, dang! I told the truth!

Never should on yourself

To be honest, I’m wrestling with several current-day issues. Wondering when confrontation is a good thing and when it’s just someone else’s hope for reconciliation. I spoke my truth once, and it wasn’t magical. It hurt. The response sucked. I spoke the truth about abuse and a lot of people were angry with me. And while it feels good to have been so brave and daring, so truth-telling, the only thing it did was make my wings a little stronger. It did absolutely nothing for the relationship.

So I am letting myself off the hook when it comes to confrontation. I’m giving myself permission to not have to explain everything. While I am committed to truth-telling, I am also committed to caring for myself. And that can be a delicate thing to balance. If and when I need to speak up, for me, I will do that. But I will not should on myself. I will not sit down and speak my brave and beautiful truth just because someone else thinks I should. If I want it for me, I will. But I am wise enough now to know that sometimes confrontation can be re-traumatizing.

It’s taken me decades to learn to trust my judgment. To honor the divine wisdom that was there all along but had just been smothered by the toxic system I found myself in. That ancient wisdom is slowly filling in the gaps where toxic structures once stood. Her voice can be trusted. And she will never should on me. When I follow her voice, I know it is towards freedom.

Want to hear more?


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

On Becoming a Healthy Black Sheep

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a Black Sheep, and how we might embrace it and become healthy black sheep. Historically this idiom, used to describe a member of a group or family that is different from everyone else, has had negative connotations. The wool from black sheep could not be dyed, so black sheep had little financial value to the owners. Additionally, in 18th and 19th century England, a black sheep was believed to have the mark of the Devil. In the Evangelical circles I grew up in, a black sheep was typically one who was not only different, but had strayed far from God and the one true path.


After my Grandpa died, and I began to process my grief, the idiom felt like a good description of me and my place in the family. I embraced the term in the memoir post I wrote after his death.


Historically, being a Black sheep has been a negative thing. Today I’m redeeming the term and embracing it. I am seeking out ways to be a whole and healthy black sheep. Let me explain.

grandpa’s house


I’ve been missing my grandpa a lot lately. Perhaps it was brought on by the pack of old notes and letters my aunt sent me, that she found in his desk after he passed. Seems he saved any and everything I ever sent him over the years. From my first clumsy attempts to master writing, to a card I sent him a few years back. He saw and savored my attempts at communication. And he cherished them.


Now he is gone. His last place of abode was just auctioned off. He lived in many homes during his one-hundred years on this earth. I grew up hearing stories of his life on this or that farm. But before I was born, he and Grandma settled into a sprawling brick house on Cherry Ridge Road. It was the only home that was ever Grandpa’s House to me.


Oh, the nooks and crannies of that place! I remember his old study before they remodeled and modernized parts of the house. It was a small room, sandwiched between the bathroom and the kitchen. There wasn’t much more than a sofa, desk, and books. So many books! I remember the room felt small and dark but there was always a lamp to shed its glow on the shelves of books and the stacks of pen and paper on his desk.

so many memories


Just down the hall was a spare bedroom where we slept when we visited. I remember waking up one crisp morning in October when I was 5 years old. Walking down the hall to find Grandpa coming out of his study, glowing with happiness, to tell my brothers and me that we had a new baby brother. I had been hoping and praying daily for a sister and part of my heart dropped in the pain of disappointment. But grandpa’s love of life was contagious and my disappointment did not last long.


The basement was my favorite place. Rooms inside of rooms. Old treasures from years gone by. A stuffed owl from one of the farms. A painting my dad made during high school. The fruit cellar with jars of canned fruit. My cousins would make a game out of seeing who could find the oldest jar.


There was always a garden in the back yard and a grape arbor where we would pick sour juice grapes and suck on the sweet center. Grandpa had an old shed built into the side of the hill and it was easy to climb onto the roof. More than one summer evening was spent on that roof with my cousins, under a star-studded sky.


Years later, they knocked down some walls and built an addition. Grandpa’s study was expanded, with a large window overlooking the hills and lush countryside. The walls were still lined with shelves of books but the place had become much brighter. Filled with light.

becoming the black sheep


The change in their house coincided with a change in me. I grew up, moved away, traveled the world. Started a family of my own. Had thoughts and questions of my own. Gathered the courage to start thinking outside of the box I had been raised in. As the house changed, I found myself changing. My own walls were being knocked down and expanded to let in more light. The old didn’t fit anymore. When I returned, I felt like a stranger.


It’s strange to write about my grandpa, who represented The Patriarchy in every way possible, as one who never made me feel like a stranger. I can’t quite explain how in all of my deconstruction, he has been somewhat separate from the ideals he represented to me. He gifted me a space of belonging, even when I chose a path he would not have approved of.


He gave me his presence and his open arms. Always. He kept telling me stories. Inviting my babies to sit in his lap even when they were almost as big as he was.

Longings of a black sheep


I wish I could walk through that house one more time. By myself. To see the light catch the dust floating in the air, hovering over his desk and shelves of books. Walk down that hallway, hear the echo of his footsteps. Pull a green plastic cup from the cupboard for a drink of water, and remember how he always teased me about having to put my nose in the glass whenever I drank. I’d sink into his hickory rocker and know he was holding me still. Even if he didn’t understand the path I was on, he recognized the essence of who I was and offered me a place of belonging.


Families are made stronger by processing grief and joy together. But I’ve felt like I’ve been on the outside for so long now. I’ll be honest. Grandpa’s death was my biggest COVID loss. He didn’t die from the virus, but because of it, I couldn’t grieve with the family. I couldn’t show up for all the things a family does when one it loves passes on. The blessing of remembering together. Eating together. Crying together. Apart from the graveside service, which was outdoors on a chilly January day, I stayed away.


And that hurt. A lot. As a family, we had all been taught to choose life. To honor and protect it. To me, that meant wearing a mask, distancing and avoiding crowds. But to the family who gathered to celebrate and grieve, it meant the opposite. So, this black sheep just felt even more shut out. The way they chose to live life, made me feel as if mine didn’t matter.

black sheep and trauma


Yet another aspect of not being able to show up has to do with past trauma. For years, even after becoming aware that what happened to me was trauma, that it was wrong and was not my fault, I still showed up. I put myself in situations where I was constantly reminded of that trauma. I was the nice person. The good little girl. I acted as if nothing had happened.


The thing about trauma, however, is that it doesn’t heal and go away on its own. It will make itself known, come out in ways that are ugly and messy. For me, it made itself known in my physical body. Aches and pains that grew in intensity, especially when I was in certain situations.


When the time is right, the body has a way of letting you know it’s time. Enough is enough.

Pain is often a sign that something has to change.

Mark Nepo

I am quick to grab pain relievers instead of listening to the message behind the pain. Tylenol. Wine. TV. Food. Friends. Not that these are bad things in and of themselves but they can distract from our pain so we can keep going on with our lives. Yet pain does not distract us from living; it shows us what needs to change so we can live better. Pain is there to give us a clue of what needs to be done. What needs to heal. What we need to change.

boundaries


So I set some boundaries and began to protect myself. It’s ugly and messy and beautiful all at once. It’s powerful and freeing, but it is also lonely.

And it’s complicated. It means I can’t yet show up in some places I would like to. My need to self-protect means that I control my narrative for the first time and yet, I lose my ability to control the narrative at all in certain situations. It means that some people I love, who had nothing to do with my trauma, are being told a narrative that makes me look ugly and vindictive. And I’m struggling to let that go. Being a healthy black sheep means learning what narratives to let go of so you can shape the only one that really matters.


Becoming a healthy black sheep is imperative when there has been mental illness, personality disorders, or addiction woven into the trauma. Others looking on may not understand the drastic measures you are taking, further reinforcing your identity as a black sheep and shaping their narrative of you.

the fear of the storytellers

A healthy black sheep knows there are stories being told about her that are based not on truth, but on the fear of those telling the stories. She lets them go so she can hold on to her truth. That different can be beautiful. That true value comes from the heart, not the color of the wool.

The beautiful thing about being a black sheep is that you cannot be owned in the way that white sheep are owned. Your body cannot be a machine for profit. Selling your wool has no value because it cannot be dyed.

This is where I am slowly learning to embrace my identity as a black sheep. One that is different from the larger group it came from. Whose value does not come from wool that can be dyed. One who is un-dyable. Marked, not by the devil, but by all the colors of life and light. Who picks up all the colors of the rainbow in a dance towards wholeness.


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.

Posted on by palmtreemomma

Creating Your New Normal

One of the greatest gifts of the pandemic has been clarity. Clarity of who and what gives life meaning and joy…who values my life and makes me feel safe…what gives me true rest and fills me up again. While I hope to never go through anything like this again, I am grateful for the gift of clarity it has brought me.

As things open up again and mask mandates are being lifted, it gives me pause. I know that many are ready to get back to the life that was normal before the pandemic. But I find myself in a different place.

Life before the pandemic was exhausting. For real. There were way too many things I was doing because I thought I should. Not because I found them life-giving. The pressure, the expectations. A calendar packed full of activities.

I find myself in a place of needing to create a new normal.

Create a new normal

Clearly, we are being given a new chapter of life. Never, in my lifetime, has there been such a clear pause between stories. A full stop. Period. A place to take in a breath and slowly, mindfully let it out again.

I imagine us all on the edge of a precipice. We’ve been waiting a long time for the signal that we can move forward. Everyone is given the option to cross on the drawbridge that is being let down. The one that has been used for generations and that feels normal.

Or we can build our own bridge across.

The first is easy. Mindless. Falling in place with the moving stream of folks headed in the same general direction. To the American Dream. Whatever that is.

The other is going to take a lot longer. You may have to scavenge for supplies. It may get lonely. The unknown of it all may feel unsettling.

But you are not lost and you have more tools than you realize. If the old way was not your dream life, than pause with me and dare to dream of building a new and better way. One that is sustainable because it sustains you. One that is lasting because it fits who you are. Let it become the stage for the best season of your life.

choosing life

You get to decide. How to move forward. Who to move forward with. If the gift of clarity has revealed people in your sphere who are not safe, who did not seem to value your life during the pandemic, pay attention to that experience. You are under no obligation to show up for them now.

Family is not flesh and blood. It is those who see you. Those who show up for you as much as they expect you to show up for them. A family is a melding of safe people and a safe place. It is not a place where you have to bargain for your place of belonging. Or explain yourself or prove anything at all.

Some of us were privileged to be born into safe and kind families. Families where thriving happens naturally. Many of us were not. While that brings up its own set of issues to process, there is something beautiful about choosing to show up in places of belonging.

I think of the butterfly from my dream years ago, that had just emerged from the cocoon. Who had struggled to pump life-giving blood into her new wings. This butterfly realizes with startling clarity that she no longer fits in the family of caterpillars. While she may not know where her story ends, she knows where the next chapter begins. So, with the beating of new wings and the following of her heart, she rises and flies, drawn by life itself. From the nectar of one flower to the next.

Follow the nectar of life, not the crowds. Dare to veer off the beaten path and create a new normal. Your new normal.

Want to hear more?


Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.

Find me on Instagram @maritajmiller and Facebook Beyond The Cocoon.