On Drumming, Dancing, Drinking and Debauchery.
Edit: I've realized this might need a warning so I'm putting it under the cut to do such properly.
Warnings: mentions of abuse plus... a young child dealing with things she shouldn't have had to. It might be a bit heavy. It's also autobiographical.
As I have mentioned, my parents were crazy hippies- but I would not want to have grown up in any different environment. My days of climbing trees and trying to find someone over fourteen to take my friends and I to the creek at festivals as well as my nights of falling asleep on blankets warmed by the giant bonfire, my lullaby the rhythmic beating of fifty-sum drums are something I would not trade for soccer practices. The memories of my mother dancing around the fire are something I wouldn't trade for a PTA mother causing a scene or voting on what kind of treats were acceptable for bake-sales. This is not to say that I don't think the experiences I had are better than anyone else's. My best friend was the girl with those experiences and she is fabulous.
On the whole, I am very pleased with the way I turned out. I think I've become a beautiful person, and I look forward to the experiences that will shape me in my future. I still have a lot of things to learn, but I do think I am a step ahead of a lot of people my age. I know, it sounds like I'm bragging. Truthfully, the only reason I think these things is because of the first relationship of my mother's that I can recall.
When I was nearly four, my mother, father and I moved to a nature sanctuary in Bedford, Indiana. According to my mother, "nature sanctuary" is the wrong term, though that is the term on the sign right below "Lothlorian". My mother also says that it takes a village to raise a child, and my village has always been one composed of crazy hippies- but as I said, I would not have wanted it any other way. Though my parents divorced, most of my village stayed the same.
At Lothlorian, commonly referred to as "The Land", there were large festivals twice a year and several other smaller gatherings between the months of May and September. Around the time I was nearly five, I wandered down to to the Sunday morning wreckage of a Saturday night of drumming, drinking, dancing and general debauchery. I can no longer recall what time of year it was, nor can I recall which festival had mudded up the trails to the creek. What I do recall is one of the most important moments of my young life. I met the man that would soon become the closest thing to a stepfather I can claim.
The way I recall it, I wandered into his camp, which was not an uncommon thing for the children at festivals to do, and he fed me eggs and bacon. My mother showed up shortly thereafter nearly in tears because I had not been in my bed when she awoke, but relived to have found me. When they stared dating in the fall, I was under the impression in my barely five year old mind that they had met because of me, a thought that haunted me years later. The man I met that day was not on the whole a nice man despite the way he appeared at first interaction.
The summer I was to turn six, we moved with him a couple hours away to Spencer. He and my mother bought a few acres of land on the boarder of McCormick's Creek State Park, and I enjoyed the forest that was my playground. Over the next four years the forest and creek behind my 'house' became my escape. In retrospect, all the signs of an abusive relationship were there, though I was just becoming cognitive and learning the ways of the world. There was no way that I could have known that our situation was as bad as it was.
I'm guessing I was around seven when I my mother stopped in the middle of the aisle of the local grocery and looked at me while I sat in the cart. I was extremely conflicted and marginally confused when she asked me if I wanted to leave John. I told her no, as I thought it was what she wanted to hear. By this point I had already learned that the best answer was the answer that was expected and the one that wouldn't result in reprimand. This is an attribute that has resulted in much grief later in life, and I'm not sure my mother really understands why I continue to tell her what she wants to hear, regardless of what the truth is. There is not a day I do not regret giving my mother the answer I thought she wanted to hear.
Quite recently I have come to realize the extent of which the years I spent under his influence have effected me. It occurs to me that I need to do a lot of construction on my "house", to quote the lovely swweeks. I pray that it is not too late to make the needed repairs to the foundation and I will be able to save the soundly constructed second story- and hopefully build a third.
Note: swweeks has a memoir in the works called "Safe as Houses". It is flocked, but if you add her she will usually let you read it. I highly recommend it. Anyway, I'll quote the first chapter so I make a little more sense.
I’ve come to believe people are like houses and lives are like the roads leading to them. Houses are solid - or not - and are built on foundations that either withstand the onslaughts of time, weather, and their inhabitants… or not. Houses have integrity, or they crumble. They stand firm and unwavering in the face of fire and siege and battle, or they destruct under those forces. Quite differently, roads are ever coming and ever going, directing the wanderer’s steps and - sometimes - leading him astray. Roads are smooth and effortless in the traveling they inspire, or they are twisted and shadowed, replete with rough patches and pocked with sink holes left by weather and man. They are the beckoning journeys we must all make before the structure of the house we shall become is made manifest for all to witness.
- Safe as Houses; Chapter 1 by swweeks
Warnings: mentions of abuse plus... a young child dealing with things she shouldn't have had to. It might be a bit heavy. It's also autobiographical.
As I have mentioned, my parents were crazy hippies- but I would not want to have grown up in any different environment. My days of climbing trees and trying to find someone over fourteen to take my friends and I to the creek at festivals as well as my nights of falling asleep on blankets warmed by the giant bonfire, my lullaby the rhythmic beating of fifty-sum drums are something I would not trade for soccer practices. The memories of my mother dancing around the fire are something I wouldn't trade for a PTA mother causing a scene or voting on what kind of treats were acceptable for bake-sales. This is not to say that I don't think the experiences I had are better than anyone else's. My best friend was the girl with those experiences and she is fabulous.
On the whole, I am very pleased with the way I turned out. I think I've become a beautiful person, and I look forward to the experiences that will shape me in my future. I still have a lot of things to learn, but I do think I am a step ahead of a lot of people my age. I know, it sounds like I'm bragging. Truthfully, the only reason I think these things is because of the first relationship of my mother's that I can recall.
When I was nearly four, my mother, father and I moved to a nature sanctuary in Bedford, Indiana. According to my mother, "nature sanctuary" is the wrong term, though that is the term on the sign right below "Lothlorian". My mother also says that it takes a village to raise a child, and my village has always been one composed of crazy hippies- but as I said, I would not have wanted it any other way. Though my parents divorced, most of my village stayed the same.
At Lothlorian, commonly referred to as "The Land", there were large festivals twice a year and several other smaller gatherings between the months of May and September. Around the time I was nearly five, I wandered down to to the Sunday morning wreckage of a Saturday night of drumming, drinking, dancing and general debauchery. I can no longer recall what time of year it was, nor can I recall which festival had mudded up the trails to the creek. What I do recall is one of the most important moments of my young life. I met the man that would soon become the closest thing to a stepfather I can claim.
The way I recall it, I wandered into his camp, which was not an uncommon thing for the children at festivals to do, and he fed me eggs and bacon. My mother showed up shortly thereafter nearly in tears because I had not been in my bed when she awoke, but relived to have found me. When they stared dating in the fall, I was under the impression in my barely five year old mind that they had met because of me, a thought that haunted me years later. The man I met that day was not on the whole a nice man despite the way he appeared at first interaction.
The summer I was to turn six, we moved with him a couple hours away to Spencer. He and my mother bought a few acres of land on the boarder of McCormick's Creek State Park, and I enjoyed the forest that was my playground. Over the next four years the forest and creek behind my 'house' became my escape. In retrospect, all the signs of an abusive relationship were there, though I was just becoming cognitive and learning the ways of the world. There was no way that I could have known that our situation was as bad as it was.
I'm guessing I was around seven when I my mother stopped in the middle of the aisle of the local grocery and looked at me while I sat in the cart. I was extremely conflicted and marginally confused when she asked me if I wanted to leave John. I told her no, as I thought it was what she wanted to hear. By this point I had already learned that the best answer was the answer that was expected and the one that wouldn't result in reprimand. This is an attribute that has resulted in much grief later in life, and I'm not sure my mother really understands why I continue to tell her what she wants to hear, regardless of what the truth is. There is not a day I do not regret giving my mother the answer I thought she wanted to hear.
Quite recently I have come to realize the extent of which the years I spent under his influence have effected me. It occurs to me that I need to do a lot of construction on my "house", to quote the lovely swweeks. I pray that it is not too late to make the needed repairs to the foundation and I will be able to save the soundly constructed second story- and hopefully build a third.
Note: swweeks has a memoir in the works called "Safe as Houses". It is flocked, but if you add her she will usually let you read it. I highly recommend it. Anyway, I'll quote the first chapter so I make a little more sense.
I’ve come to believe people are like houses and lives are like the roads leading to them. Houses are solid - or not - and are built on foundations that either withstand the onslaughts of time, weather, and their inhabitants… or not. Houses have integrity, or they crumble. They stand firm and unwavering in the face of fire and siege and battle, or they destruct under those forces. Quite differently, roads are ever coming and ever going, directing the wanderer’s steps and - sometimes - leading him astray. Roads are smooth and effortless in the traveling they inspire, or they are twisted and shadowed, replete with rough patches and pocked with sink holes left by weather and man. They are the beckoning journeys we must all make before the structure of the house we shall become is made manifest for all to witness.
- Safe as Houses; Chapter 1 by swweeks