Interpreting Tarot -- Reading the Book of Life
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Rebecca Brents

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Sudden Awakening : Into Direct Realization
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	Mother Fear by
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Mother Fear

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Mothers resist us as we draw near to their young sons. Their hearts jump with fear at the mere sight of us. We are the girls who, by the time we hit junior high school, look used up. The freshness of innocence has been drained away. We look sallow and dull. The only sparkle in our eyes is the mischief we use to cover our panic, mistaken as a come-on look. There is an aura about us that calls out, "kick me, use me, throw me away." Or it may defiantly sneer, "lay a hand on me and I'll destroy you." These signals flash like neon signs in a cheap diner.

We are on display too, and cheap. We can be had for a smile or warm gaze. Just the perceived promise of kindness will cause us to throw off any restraint or task at hand, to grasp what turns into whirlwind in our hands.

One of the first memories I have is sitting on the lap of some adored man. I sat quietly, frantically trying not to notice his hand up my skirt, violating my trust, while his lap swelled hard beneath me. I don't know why, but I didn't even let the expression on my face change. I was as nonchalant as any little girl sitting on her daddy's knee. There is no face to this memory, only a picture of a chair. I was so small that the bottom of my shoes didn't even come down to the tops of his socks. I was very small.

It starts for us young. By the time I was five, I had become a toy for the other kids in my neighborhood who liked to play dirty. I didn't like it, but at least they were attentive. I can't remember a time when there wasn't someone touching me in ways that made my stomach knot.

We are children so hungry for touch that it matters little who it comes from. Thinking what they are doing is loving us, we are used.

I loved a boy in fourth grade who treated me with respect. He was the deeply wounded product of an abusive alcoholic family. Mine was abusively detached. We understood each other without even speaking about how we both suffered. I couldn't understand why he didn't touch me though. We drifted apart. Behind him was an endless line of others waiting to take a number, like a bakery line moving casually forward.

Hawks are birds of prey that circle the sky, searching out small morsels to satisfy their hunger. There are humans too, who develop a taste for tender flesh. They possess a keen focus, able to spot vulnerability. Defenselessness will meet their needs, but prey that is wounded comes down even faster. Girls, with ill-hidden crippled wings are courted and attended to with the healing touch of a surgeon.

Once calmed and assured of continued care, their eagerness to please will be turned into a profit-making sickness. Prostitutes start as children in need of living kindness. Hardness builds, layer by layer, as hearts steel against brutish betrayal. These beautiful children can't tell that the voracious hunger they resist is for tender, sexless caresses. Pure touch. We want a warm fuzzy, but get a slimy grope instead.

I see very young girls flaunting sensual behavior and an indicator light flashes. Gut wrenching panic deep in my heart flutters. I want to grasp their tiny faces between my hands and tell them to resist, run, flee, fast. But to tell them would only confuse their worlds. The persons nearest and dearest will continue to misuse their trusting need, giving rise to a most deadly kind of loneliness. Loneliness that comes from never taking the chance of disclosing their hungry need for appropriate touch and warmth.

This gives a hard, powerful weapon into the hands of hatred. Users are hateful people whose own pain is so wild and driving, they don't even know why they must perpetuate these deadly deeds, thrusting open chasms others will fall into and die. Pain causes madness when it is left gaping and unhealed.

Memories of living a life, that on the outside looked insanely careless and wayward, cause much confusion and anguish. We seldom see our actions as a flailing attempt to be loved. The song, "Looking for love in all the wrong places" becomes the theme song of our tattered lives. We are a tender-hearted breed. You, outside our pain, will never discern this, unless you were a bad girl too.

Softness is safely locked away, deep in the hidden recesses of our rock-hard exteriors. There is a silent code among us to never talk about or expose each other. The grip of the vise that holds us is that we trust the people we should run from. The ones who would be safe and who could shelter us, we flee.

One of the first attractions to the wild side is the sense of loyalty it exudes. People calling each other brother and sister, swearing allegiance, even unto death. Our own siblings not only lack safe wanting, but often taunt and command us get lost or drop dead. They are often our primary abusers. How can a child's mind interpret words hurled like darts, bursting protective bubbles? We cling to other losers and rejects. It is a fellowship of misery, warmer than the cold absence of home.

Many of us, very early dare not allow hope, targeting normal people as the enemy. Outside the haven of these homes, we have little opportunity to see family interactions that don't cause pain. Their houses are the places we retreat to for safe play. But in them, a subtle resistance in their parents eyes and actions push us away. It is imperceptible to those less keenly attuned to rejection.

We can smell it, like an animal smells fear. Our senses are sharper than happy children. We are always on the alert, detecting the next attack, ready to flee at a moment's notice. The only trap that we will fall into every time are the ones veiled in kindness. We will stumble in blindly, headlong.

One sad handicap we all share, is that the fight or flight mechanism, present in healthy people, has in us, been violated so often, we mistake fear for attraction. Even though the usual heart pounding signals of fear alert us, we will be overtaken. Somehow, we sense that we are damaged in this respect, but have no clue as to how to repair it. The die has been cast that will keep us ever in the grasp of perversion, save intervention of a higher power.

Not many of us find our way to this altar. We tend to leave hope behind with toys and other fairy tale stuff. I have known the Gentle Healer for many years. He is the only one who has never hurt me, and as I yield to His care, my pain is subsiding. I trust, then retreat repeatedly, scores in one day. It is like a dance, sometimes expressing boundless joy brought laughingly on the wings of acceptance.

We rise together upward towards places the child in me only imagined, but never realized outside sleep-time dreams. Others are more of a less-than-waltz, nearly dirge-like. But He holds me closely and allows my tears. I resist at times, sure He will tire of me and turn away in disgust. He has stayed, always assuring, He will never leave or forsake me. Slowly, with strength more commanding than my doubts, we have sorted through my mountainous trash heap of fears, healing one by one, as I release them.

Just now, we are getting close to the catacomb where a little girl is hiding. So many times she trusted and was shattered. I see her concealed behind their hard defensive eyes of other little girls. Outside, their bodies will touch nearly anyone who seems to hold the promise of tender acceptance, while the little girl inside of them waits alone. There, behind the walls, I can hear the sound of footsteps retreating down a cold stone stairwell.

Try not to judge us too harshly. The more resistance and outrage we exhibit on the outside, the farther down their stairs we children have hidden, waiting for the all's-clear signal.

The greater part of our happiness or our misery
depends on our dispositions and not on our circumstances.
~ Martha Washington ~
Born June 21, 1732

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Enchanted Spirit is a non-denominational spiritual center of healing, support, self-improvement, personal guidance, education and writing. We publish multi-media works of New Age thought and information to encourage serenity and growth in individual life choices, advance the universal search for life's meaning, and promote tolerance for positive ideas from all philosophies and religious traditions, believing as we do that truth is where you find it.

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Last updated January 31st, 2004

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The Yod Book: Including a Complete Discussion of Unaspected Planets
By
Karen Hamaker-Zondag