Abridged excerpts from

A Field with a Million Crosses

~~~

It was during my years of

            psychotherapy with Stuart

that a magical world opened up through

my writing,

 

A world in which my silent inner child

began to speak,

 

A world that magically,

                                    miraculously,

time and time again

pulled me out from my despair

~~~

​

predators

feed on victims’ vulnerability,

 

they sense it

like Dracula senses the blood of his victims

and go for the kill

~~~

​

Years later,

when my world at First Church was collapsing,

 

church leaders blamed me

                        for accepting the pastor’s help,

 

it was inappropriate, they said

 

God: blaming the victim

​

The Guys (Jay's stuffed animals:)

she’s crying! she’s crying!

Jay is crying!

 

God: and that’s your broken heart right there;

come here, baby

 

The Guys: me too! me too!

 

God: yes, you guys, you too

​​

~~~

​

I couldn’t see how Ned was manipulating me,

    pulling the strings of my heart,

                                exploiting my confusion

 

how twisted,

how insidious his manipulations were

 

~~~

​

2012

 

 “Your Spirit Guides want you to know

that all the things that happened to you

were not your fault, Jorgelina,”

my energy healer said.

~~~

​

expecting nothing

from church leaders

stops the bleeding of the heart

 

~~~

​

In spite of the UCC’s indifference to my situation,

I was healing.

 

 

the writing,

 

            the purging

 

my conversations with God

had continued

 

and somehow,

 

            miraculously,

 

                        I was healing

~~~

​​

 September 2012

 

“They are not there to help you.

They are there to cover their ass,” a friend said.

 

And yet there I was, once more,

preparing to meet with church leaders

 

~~~

 

WHAT AM I THINKING?

 

AM I OUT OF MY MIND?

 

Walking into a gigantic political machinery

to be slaughtered yet again???

​

And I canceled the meeting.

~~~

​

and the severed

 cord

​

my cord to the church, severed

 

the cord through which

torrents of creative energy once flowed

 

it’s as though

a lion’s sharp claws have torn my cord apart

leaving only a bleeding stump,

 

a bleeding stump that

time and time again has been crushed,

 

a bleeding stump that still today

carries the hope to heal

 

will I ever heal?
                       will I ever heal?