Tag: mental-health

I wanted to take a moment for reflection. As I write, I am unpacking the very moments of my life that were tucked away, hidden in the corners of my memory, waiting for the right time to be explored. These types of traumas take time for reflection and also a moment of healing, like the delicate process of a flower slowly unfurling its petals. When I write this, what comes to mind is the tree of life, a powerful symbol of growth, resilience, and the continuous cycle of existence. And as I write this, just outside my window is a tree, and in my heart and mind, it represents the tree of life.

I watch the cycles of this tree from winter to spring, observing its transformation with a sense of wonder and appreciation. Looking bare and cold, almost dead-like in the winter, it stands as a reminder of the harshness of life. While the spring shows the opposite of things; the tree budding and life is taking place, bursting forth with vibrant greens and blossoms that signal renewal and hope. Oftentimes, reflecting, my grandma’s voice enters my heart and says, “look at God’s wonder,” a phrase that resonates deeply within me, urging me to find beauty even in the darkest times. I am not all that religious; however, I know what life and death truly are, the intricate dance we all partake in. Sometimes I feel my best friend is death; not because I want to or need to experience it, but because it has been a companion in my journey. It’s just the odds lead me to it, and I witnessed it at a very young age, shaping my understanding of existence in profound ways. Can you imagine? I escaped death twice; looking like this tree, I too was bare, stripped of the vibrancy and life force that once defined me. And as I write, I too begin to bud, and life takes shape, embracing the healing journey ahead. It’s healing; it’s the power of shaping who you are to be, allowing the experiences of the past to inform a brighter, more resilient future.

I often think that people in general have gifts. As I write this today, I want to open the door to anyone who is reading this, and I apologize if I might sound odd. Do you feel connected in the great circle of life? Let me explain and try to break this down the best that I can. I am sure I am not the only human on this earth who has trauma. However, for those like me, how you deal with those traumas makes you different. So, for example, take myself. I was alone for most of my life. I had that nuclear family, and I went to public school, so opportunity was there. It was just that I couldn’t connect, and because of that, I was alone. It was not anything anyone did at that time; it was just me and my own self. Because of this, I often found myself engaging in things that normal people wouldn’t engage in. And for me, it was nature. I carefully studied everything I could, from the mole holes in the ground to the butterflies that flew around mom’s garden. I had the world to explore, while the typical kids like my brothers would just ride their bikes and do what kids do. Me, however, I found peace in the world around me. Mother Nature became my friend, and the bees and the sunflowers were my sisters and my brothers. If I interacted with them, I felt they would interact with me, and often, with bees, even they can sting when they are mad; just like humans. During those solitary moments, I would sit for hours in the lush grass, watching the clouds drift by, lost in thoughts that seemed to echo in the gentle breeze. I became a silent observer of life, soaking in the intricate dances of insects and the rustle of leaves, learning lessons not from books or classrooms, but from the very rhythm of the earth. It was a profound realization that each creature, no matter how small, held its own unique significance within the tapestry of existence. This connection to nature shaped my understanding of belonging and resilience, teaching me that even in solitude, one can find companionship in the simplest of things—the rustle of the grass, the warmth of the sun, and the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings.

I remember when I lived in this apartment as an adult with my now fiancé. Before my grandmother passed away, she came over to check out my new apartment, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and love. For some reason, looking back on it now, it seems this was her mission, a final opportunity to impart her wisdom. She climbed the steps that, in her mind, were seemingly impossible to conquer, each step representing her determination. When she finally reached the top and looked around, the joy on her face was palpable. She took in our one-bedroom apartment, her gaze sweeping across the space, eventually landing on the breathtaking overview of the water, which cast its reflection of the sky above in a shimmering dance.

My grandmother looked around and said, “this will do,” her voice laced with a sense of approval and contentment. Not knowing what she meant then, I understand now the weight of her words; I needed that connection to what lay ahead in my life. Careless of the warnings that echoed in my mind, I was simply enchanted by my grandmother’s company and the stories she shared so effortlessly. I remember her looking out the windows, her finger pointing excitedly at a duck paddling gracefully as it swam in the cold waters below. She said, “You see that, Patrick?” I replied with a smile, “Yes, I do.” Grandma then added, “That’s God’s wonder right there.” Her words struck a chord within me, and I felt a warmth spread through my heart. I nodded and replied, “Well, of course it is.” It was impossible to disagree because she was undeniably right. That duck was doing things that us humans could not do—effortlessly gliding through the water, completely devoid of concern or care in the world. The message resonated deeply; this duck possessed a kind of freedom and power that seemed to transcend my human experience. Yes, I may have free thought and the capacity for reflection, but it became evident that this simple creature had an edge over me.

In just a matter of seconds, my grandmother had taught me a great life lesson, one that would linger in my mind long after her departure. And in that moment, I learned what my gift was, the ability to appreciate the simple wonders of life, and to carry forward the lessons imparted by those we love.