Sleep Walking

It wasn't a fairytale.


Although, to look at the infant dressed in a long, white gown, a crisp bonnet adorning her head, it surely seemed fitting of a princess.


And if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head up to the ceiling, the modest church had an ever so slight resemblance to the cathedrals of yesterday, many of whom were frequented by the regal and royal set.


Certainly if you closed your eyes completely and listened as the haunting melodies of the organ music drifted just above the quiet conversations in the crowded chapel, you would feel akin to the noble men and women who long ago witnessed the prince and princess sealing their new marriage with a kiss.


It seemed to emulate some fable lifted from a story book as an array of guests arrived from near and far to see the infant.


But, those who had encircled the newborn babe were not a ring of fairies waiting to present their magical gift, but rather a gathering of men- father, grandfather, brothers, uncles, friends- not one of whom had a sparkling wand in their possession. And in place of the magic spell cast by a winged pixie, was a pure and powerful prayer.


A blessing.


The father, not a King or imperial figure, but noble in every sense of the word, reverently spoke of the gifts he wished for his daughter. He blessed the child to walk in faith.  To recognize that she was born to goodly parents who would never lead her astray. To always remember the truths she had been taught. To know her value, her infinite worth. It was a blessing meant to instill the knowledge that her nature, though lacking any evidence of royal blood, truly was divine.

There was another purpose to the benediction. A request for the safe keeping of their beloved girl. For the parents of the young child knew that the witches and warlocks of bedtime stories were no match for the dangers of the real world. They would do their best to create a "castle" of love and encouragement, but there would still come a day when their daughter would need to venture out on her own and encounter the spindles of life...

I can see it clear as day.

The colorful array of plastic chairs. The pea green chalkboard covered with the painted masterpieces of juvenile artists. The "naughty word" some punk sixth grader had carved into my desk.

It was fourth grade art class.

And it was the day I would encounter my first Spindle.

The assignment was simple. For weeks we had been studying the beauty of experimentation and free form expression while learning the history of Modern art. We watched as our teacher, who consequently, jingled while she walked thanks to her love of silver bangle bracelets and dangle earrings, passionately described the movements that contributed to the Modern trend: Cubism, Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism!  We could barely separate one from the other but her enthusiasm was contagious. And now it was our turn. We would be part of our own movement! Each of us were given a large piece of poster board and an array of paints and supplies. For the next hour we would be artists,

or maybe even artistes! (ooh la la)


I opted for several containers of fluorescent paint and several giant paintbrushes. The crisp, black bristles turned to a lovely shade off fuchsia as I lowered them into the thick stain. A tingle ran across my shoulders as I watched my plain, white paper come alive with purple swirls, turquoise squiggles and lime colored swooshes. It was only after I heard the familiar clinking and clanking of my teacher coming up behind me that I finally laid my brush to rest.

"Class, Class! Everyone look up here for a moment." I froze as one of her bedazzled hands reached out to grab my beloved creation. "I want you to see what a wonderful job Christy did on the assignment. You can tell that she painted with passion." The way she said the word passion, with a slight (horrible) French accent, made it seem so exciting, so....important.


I was beaming.

She loved it!

That had to mean something right? I mean, if you could've seen her long swishy skirts and kicky berets, they just screamed "Paris Underground". Surely she knew what she was talking about?


I carefully scrolled my name across the top of my painting and set it on a table to dry, lingering just a minute more on my pride and joy. I skipped on the short walk to my desk. Once settled I scanned the room looking for my ever present "posse". It was time to check out my fellow artists-in-training.


"Hey guys!" I whispered excitedly, waving to my two friends seated several rows over. "Did you finish your paintings yet?"


*silence*

Confused at the response, I leaned forward in my chair and tried again.


"H- Hey guys?!  Can I see what you painted?"


This time my question was met with two sets of squinty eyes and  a pair of upper lips raised to form a snarl. I  watched as one whispered to the other then laughed and quickly turned her head around showing me her back. The other followed suit, flipping her hair as she turned.


My heart sunk.


What just happened?

I risked humiliation and a possible "name on the board" situation as I walked across the room to their desks. I crouched behind a table so as not to be seen by the teacher and made a final attempt at reaching out to my two , er...best friends? (We'll call them "B" and "H".)

"What's wrong B?" I squeaked. The lump in my throat was threatening to blow my unaffected cover.


"You just think you're so great. We saw you. Do you think you're better than us because the teacher liked your picture??" She spoke as though she smelled something foul, her face twisted with disgust. I turned my gaze to H, hoping for some hint of  disagreement, but she just nodded, her eyes reflecting the same hostility.


I wracked my brain, trying to understand what I had done to give them the impression that I had felt at all superior to them. Sure, I had a lot of fun with the assignment and it was always nice to receive praise (I was the middle child after all) but at no time did I ever present myself as anything special.

As if she could somehow hear my inner monologue, B explained her reason for taking offense, "You thought you were a real artist or something, signing your work all proud: 'By Christy Gordon'. Why would you do that? It's just a bunch of lines and shapes."

That's when I felt it.

 A prick.

It started with a sharp pain in my heart and dissolved into a hundred little pin pricks traveling through my body.

Instantly tears trickled down my face and I sunk to a crumpled heap on the floor. That was how I felt right then, a crumpled heap of sadness. I had to get rid of this feeling.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" I was searching for the words to describe what I had done. I honestly had no idea. "...make you mad? I really don't even like my picture. Your pictures are way better."

It didn't matter that  my words burned like acid in my throat before they reached my lips, it seemed to fix the problem. And maybe they were right. Maybe it was a stupid picture unworthy of the signature proudly displayed in the top corner. Suddenly, their opinion of me seemed far more important than my own.


I walked over to the counter, grabbed my picture


and tossed it into the garbage can.




I glanced back at my two friends. Their scowls had turned into giggles. B waved me over. I quickly wiped my eyes and threw on a  plastic smile. It worked. My sacrifice had won back their friendship.

Talk of my art class soon turned to who would have the next sleep over and what we were going to be for Halloween. I happily joined in, grateful to be included again. The sharp pain was gone, but now a new sensation had taken it's place.

I was numb.

Asleep.

Not a physical sleep, but spiritual, emotional. A small part of my soul lay unresponsive where before it ran free and whispered to the greatness of my potential.


She shall prick her finger, on the spindle of a spinning wheel....


It was only the beginning of many Spindles to come.


..and come they did.


The relentless teasing  I received from boys on the playground.


The teacher who made light of my struggles with math.


The friends who gained self esteem by striping mine away.


The boy who carefully erased any trace of pride or dignity with his abuse.


Every prick sent me a little further into slumberland  and a little farther from loving the girl in the mirror.

We all have similar stories, I'm sure. Moments in our life where we felt the sting of a Spindle and relented to it's power. Many of us have let the opinions and insults of others slowly entrance our knowledge of who we are and what we stand for- clouding our self worth- until we find ourselves captive in a thorny tower of our own creation, unable to awake from the nightmare of self hatred.

I've been blessed to heal from the careless words of children unaware and people long since removed from my circle of loved ones. In this stage of life, it's my own self doubt and disgust that threatens to be a sleeping potion to my soul. There are days when I have become the villain in my own story.

I have slumbered in that very tower, longing for the valiant white knight to set me free. And while a handsome prince is always a blessing (having secured one of my very own I can assure you it's wonderful) he has no power over my release.

Because this isn't a fairytale.

Life isn't meant to be a fairytale. It may seem unfair that Sleeping Beauty's Prince did all of the work- hacking through the prickly gates and slaying the beast. The Princess was rescued, not a hair out of place or blemish to be seen. But what did she learn? What would we gain if our troubles were magically disappeared by a fairy godmother? (Besides The Pumpkin Mobile and really uncomfortable shoes?)

The many pricks and pokes that we experience may seem debilitating at the time, but our story is far from over. We are built to withstand these trials and a hundred more like them. It may be a messy fight and our skin may be torn and bruised, but with every swing of the sword our eyes will be opened and the whisperings of who we truly are will return.

You are of great worth.

You have a purpose.

You are loved.



One by one they will replace the drowsy thoughts of yesterday and the spell will be broken. The thorns will relent, the beast will surrender and the true beauty of the castle that encases our heart will shine through the once dismal fortress.


That is when our story truly takes flight....


and we begin the journey to


Happily Ever After.

**************************************

The Bandit's pick for next Wednesday's topic : TBA (My fellow Bandit is out of town for her Gramma's funeral.)