Crying over a mess of herbs and alcohol stirred into an inert slop before my mesa, shedding tears on the wreck as though they might be the secret ingredient to right this botched attempt at alchemy, my body heaved out a liquid history of cynicism, mind collapsing to match the mess like a tapestry unraveled at the tug of a single thread. My teacher’s voice echoed in my head, “Now, remember, try not to let school interfere with your education… Don’t get too hung up about this. Be free, playful, creative, innovative in your medicine service to the world. Just don’t worry. Chill. You know? Take a break from yourself, man. There’s nothing wrong with not knowing what you’re doing as long as you give yourself permission to have fun, man, and peace. So here we go, crazy ones.” Then my mesa pulled that thread, reeling me again into a journey through its familiar time spiral.

The moment my playful nature departed is marked in memory, an inky black splotch dabbed over the spot like a place on a map in my mind, or like a flowered cross along a roadside where the way turns steep and dangerous.

At age twelve I could barely bid my child self to stay as my body began to secretly devour itself. The next year, with the words, “There’s no cure,” echoing through my cells, I sat in a chair in the dark feeling her leave me, powerless to keep her. After that, all my stories were about death, or something sickly sweet enough to mask the stench of its caress.
This many years later, only after having given up finally on chemical treatments and someday cures, after beholding the ashen ravages with no sugar stirred in or illusions to soften their jagged black edges, only now have I begun to see clearly through the blinding bright touch of loss to recognize its blessings and find that they can heal. Only now, working the birthright of my shamanic medicine, have I found myself whole enough to know how healing is different from curing.

But by the time I had recovered enough to know the importance of finding the child, of welcoming the wisdom of my wayward ghost parts home to the present whole of me, that ghostly girl child was already long lost.

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About the Author

Carolyn is an artist, soul alchemist, dream walker, Earth lover, seer, shapeshifter, space holder, teacher and healer. She works creatively and eclectically to reveal wholeness through exemplifying beauty and connection in all things.

You can find her artwork and jewelry for honoring your animal totems and spirit guides at www.etsy.com/shop/TheWildPsyche and www.facebook.com/TheWildPsyche. Witness her journey at www.instagram.com/wi_psi/

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