Healing

She tells him about her bad dreams. The ones which wake her in the early hours filled with apprehension and genuine fear. Her daughter taken. Her daughter gone. Such powerful fear that she must go again and check, look into her  room, see the small, vulnerable form sleeping with her toys, hot and clammy and in her own dreams. But this only stills the conscious mind. Underneath is the subconscious dread which all mothers face at some time and all mothers bear in silence.

Here is a true altruism at work. The fear is not for the self, is not about guilt or abandonment  or loss; it is fear for the safety of the other, for the being of the other. Such unselfconscious love is common enough but little spoken of. Perhaps it is a taboo; to speak the fear is to name it. To name it is to give it power.

He holds her tight, silent. This is not to be explained or reasoned; it is from the deep inner self, which is not touched by reason. Sometimes, the only healing is simply being. To give strength when it is needed, to be present when the land of Dreams is beset by darkness.

But he has known such monsters, too. In conscious unconsciousness he has faced the slavering beast and stood before it, not unafraid, but knowing that to stand is at first enough. To stand then to strike. For the beasts must be defeated. And the means of victory is not power, but courage. It is the better kind of strength.

The weapon which beats such darkness back is determination, pig-headedness, the certainty that it must be done; there must be a stand. And the turning point, the healing, begins when the state of mind which engenders the dark is faced in real time. That is to say, we change our mind. We reach a decision. We take a stand, then take a step.

He decides to tell her about his fear. To be condemned to be forever the orphan. That his story might always be the same; of being left alone and never to have been beloved.

                “But you are beloved,” she tells him as she grips him fiercely to her, “by me.”

“I know, my love,” he replies, “which is why I don’t have those dreams any more. And the meaning of your love for her is that she will never have to have those dreams, or if she has them, she will have the strength to overcome them.”

She lies still, thinking, for a while.

“So, I have the dreams, which make me want to show her how much I love her, so that she doesn’t need to have them.”

He smiles, kisses her.

“She will have her own dreams, her own nightmares, but she will learn from us that she can have them and still be strong, still go on. These dark moments are a reminder that it is important to love, but it is also important to let the other know they are beloved. Let her know you love her. Then perhaps the dreams will recede.”

She does not answer. She has drifted back to sleep. He smiles. It is a small healing.