This is a prose poem that I wrote at the start of August 2017, as I was thinking about the innocence of childhood, of how that innocence is sometimes lost or brutally snatched away. I was thinking, too, of the archetype of the inner child. It’s the part of us that retains a child-like innocence and purity, that doesn’t always understand the ways of this cruel world. And as the thoughts swirled in my mind, this poem just….wrote itself. At least that’s how it felt! I wasn’t too sure about sharing it, but the more I read it, the more I knew that someone out there needed to read this too. So, here it is.
This is for the crying child, for the abused child, for the child who never felt understood, for the child who never felt loved.
This is for the loved child, for the treasured and protected child, for the one who felt comforted and nourished, for the one who felt a sense of belonging.
This is for the in-between child, the one who felt loved and misunderstood, cared for and punished, protected and scared, nourished and hungry.
This is for the small child, the teenage child, the adolescent child, the big child, the old before their age child.
You were never unloved. You were never abandoned. You were never forgotten.
Things may have happened that you didn’t understand. You may have felt unloved and forgotten. You may have felt unwanted and maybe even defeated. You may have had to dim your light, keep quiet, walk on eggshells. You may have been loved, you may have been abused. It may have seemed horrific.
But you were never unloved. You were never abandoned. You were never forgotten.
Why, you may have asked a thousand, million, countless times. Why, you may have cried and screamed. Why, you may have begged for an answer. Why, you may have whispered as you lay there frightened and broken and alone.
The answer to each why is unique. The answer to each why will be revealed. It may feel like a travesty, but you will be able to look back and see the larger plan, the bigger design, the greater scheme.
From the ashes of that why arises an activist. From the ashes of that why arises an artist. From the ashes of that why arises a writer. From the ashes of that why arises a poet. From the ashes of that why arises a singer. From the ashes of that why arises a tender soul, ready to blaze a new trail, shine a light, raise a voice, thunder out against injustice, raise the call for better laws.
There are some who never arise from the ashes of that why. You think they are nameless, faceless, forgotten. But they have started their own quiet revolution – in their families, in their communities, in their villages, towns and cities.
Not all whys get a satisfactory answer sometimes. But every individual soul gets an answer to their why.
I hope these words bring you comfort. I know I have found power and solace in them as I have navigated through a particularly trying time these last two months. xox