The Idea Of Me by Theresa C. Gaynord

I realize I tend to surround myself

around fears and self-protection,

an emotionally tough lesson I learned

from very early on; the women in my

life, my teachers. I get like this

sometimes, insecure, scared, anything

but confident. I feel so drained, yet

at the same time, I feel a strong sense

of emotional balance. I’ve learned

to trust my instincts, they’re not always



Last night I dreamt of wax, paraffin wax,

the kind you make candles with. I watched

it melt gradually over a burner, feeling a

symbolic alignment to it, not so much on

a physical level but on an intellectual level;

the way I arrange thoughts around in my

head, the way they come out of me a certain

way. It doesn’t take long for me to find a

rhythm, there’s great power in the weaving of

change, great ways to gently start over, with

growth, choice of direction and wholeness.


I feel like I’ve been blindsided again, there’s

that negative energy that always manages to

make itself known when you’re at your most

vulnerable. It seeps in, like the coloring and

fragrance you add to wax after it has melted,

when it calls you to the past, beckoning you

to connect A with B, through issues that must

be molded and resolved. It’s the same sense

I had when I held my sister’s favorite bracelet,

the Mexican silver one bought in Taxco with

the red onyx stones, the one that remains


scented by her. The patterns of colors are the

same, but the texture of the stones is so different,

one from the other. I pass my fingers over it, and

I get the odd sense of years moving backward in

time, and I am joined by the remains that are still

very much a part of my life and my heart. If there

ever was a foolish notion of happily ever after, I am

not consciously aware of it. I think that kind of role

requires trust; faith and support, in sync with soul-

expansion; natural, healthy that doesn’t make you

question your own sanity.


It’s funny how the layers formed on her bracelet. I

wonder if they always felt abrasive-like, when Jose

first presented it to her as an engagement gift, a

promise of true love. I’m sure at one time it needed

some fine tuning, some adjustment made because it

was too big for her wrist. There must have been

reassurances, good, exciting, and worthwhile;

something special that made her feel genuine about

expressing her experience with all; something

awesome before it went scary, before everything

liquefied and slipped away.


I can visualize myself out on the ledge of our high rise

threatening to jump just as she did, when Jose left

her for that Japanese girl, the one he said was sexier

than She, the one who wasn’t carrying his baby. I don’t

know what qualifies full grounding, but I do know

it doesn’t come in the form of loss, and certainly

not in the form of a miscarriage. When the rug has

been pulled out from under you, you tend to fall before

you even know what has happened and I’ve learned that

sometimes you can’t even shake that feeling of

apprehension, that will always be a part of you,


waiting for the crash, the fall. It’s about the same

time where you stop talking, when you no longer

feel the need to keep anything from anyone nor to

tell everyone everything. My mom was the same way.

She had all these vague frustrations that often found their

way to a leather belt, onto my bare skin. It was called

discipline back then, but I knew better. It was in the way

she held that ring. Not her wedding ring, the other one.

All her hopes and desires just exuded from that ring. It

was strange and intense to witness, especially when she

didn’t know I was looking.


My brother, now, he was unique. He was the epitome

of the necessary strength and courage one needs to

go on, intuitive, but dismissive of it. I never saw him show

any sign of emotion other than the one time when dad

passed away from cancer; my brother held my father’s

eyeglasses in his hands and cried, there were no words,

and he cried for less than a minute, but I remember. And

I remember he never showed weakness again. Did you

know that some candles hold their sense of peace, even

when there are corresponding physical changes? I’m not

so inclined to color or scent those candles;


I just let them be. I’ve got a better insight now, I think.

Some conversations are best left for later, some, never.

I wonder if all men are like my brother, all women like my

sister and mother, particularly within the family structure;

esoteric. I find it curious what we base knowledge of another on.

For most people, it’s in what is said, you know, that kind

of inherent activity that spills out of their mouths. But, me,

I know better. Individuality is like the dynamics of melting

wax, like the dynamics of most women, who hold deep

secrets within their essence. It’s not always what they say

but what they don’t say that defines them.



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