Cheater's Latin Soup

Yesterday I wanted soup. But I wanted it quickly, and I was feeling lazy. So here's what I did.

1 32-oz. carton Latin Style Black Bean Soup

1 32-oz. carton Organic Roasted Red Pepper and Tomato Soup (I had the low sodium version on hand)

2 15-oz cans black beans, drained and rinsed

garlic salt and coarse black pepper to taste

That's it. I heated it all up together. Toasted some corn tortillas in my iron skillet. Put out the Fritos and leftover cornbread, along with some shredded cheese and sour cream. Pretty darn tasty for a cold Sunday afternoon.

Happy eating!

linking up with Made by You Monday

a reason to not be silent

In support of survivors everywhere:

An Open Letter From Dylan Farrow

{this moment}

A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Hero

a person who is admired for great or brave acts or fine qualities

Everybody needs a hero. Sometimes it's that person who rescues you from the school bully or the mean neighborhood dog.

But sometimes we have to be our own heroes. There's not always a knight in shining armor to rescue the damsel in distress. The damsel has to rescue herself.

Years ago my first therapist told me I'd have to save myself from my past. Other people could be my cheerleaders and support staff, but the real work would be all mine.

I didn't like that one bit.

Over time I've come to realize the truth in his words and the value of becoming my own hero. For an abuse survivor it's all about taking back the control that was stolen from me. 

If I'd turned over my recovery to some hero or rescuer I would never have learned how strong I am now or how I strong I was then. Just living through the abuse and moving forward was a success, I just didn't know it at the time.

So here's to heroes. The individuals in the trenches who forget how heroic we really are.

Blessings.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Unanswerable Questions

I was sitting in a friend's kitchen on Easter Sunday. It was late spring and the kids were playing outside while we got lunch ready to eat on the front lawn. We had invited a family from church to join all of us because they were new to our congregation and she was a single mom with 2 kids and no family in town.

Her little girl, maybe 7, wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table beside me. The mother looked at her daughter and said, "You and this lady have something in common." 

And I froze. 

Our commonality was we had both been abused. I knew this was what the mom was referencing. What I couldn't figure out was what she thought I was supposed to do with that opening. 

There is a space in time that freezes, or at least slows down significantly. I got caught in that time/space. Really it was only for a few seconds, but I clearly remember looking with desperation to the other women in that kitchen. Women who knew my story and were waiting for me to offer this little girl a gift of healing. 

I opened my mouth and said, "What's your favorite color?"

That was all I could process, except to know this was neither the time nor the place, nor was I the person to delve into this child's trauma.

She looked at me timidly and said, "Purple."

I smiled and said, "Me too!" And from there we went into a conversation on the benefits of different shades of purple and what other colors we liked using when we drew pictures.

Her mother wandered from the kitchen. I don't know what she had expected. I don't know what I could have done differently.

Their family didn't stay around at church long. I don't think I drove them away, but I'm not sure I offered them something they needed. So if that little girl is reading this now, or her mother is, this is what I want you to know. 

Purple is my favorite color. And I do love to draw and color pictures. I am infinitely sorry for the trauma you experienced, and I wish I had the wisdom to help you heal. But maybe I gave you something. I hope so. 

Blessings.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Doors

{explicit content; triggers}

I am a small child and it feels as if she is devouring me. I can't get away and there is no one to call on for help. She has said before she will kill me, and now she is making good on that promise, but in a totally unforeseen way.

I look to my left, and I see my escape. A door. Albeit a closet door, but it is a door nonetheless. Doors are escape hatches in my mind. 

I concentrate on the knob. It is aged brass but still has a bit of sheen to it. I imagine I can see myself in it. I see my hand reaching for it. I can almost touch it. Keep concentrating. Reach. Reach. Reach.

I don't feel the knob in my hand. I don't remember turning it, but now I am sitting on the pillow on my bed as far from her as I can get given that she is in the same room. I pull my knees up under my gown and keep looking to the left. If I shift my eyes I will see her and be trapped again. So I keep my eyes trained to the left. 

There is a bookcase against the wall. Filled with books and my sister's toy horse figurines. 

Our joint collection of Companion Library books. 

The bottom of the bookcase has two sliding doors where we cram everything when told to clean our room.

I keep my eyes trained on the bookcase. Don't blink. I wait, barely breathing until it's over. 

But once it's over will I exist anymore?

linking up with Just Write

Tea Mouse

linking up with Wordless Wednesday & The Jenny Evolution