The following short story is part of a three part series I wrote for my own inner explorations inspired by Patti Digh’s structured writing practice.

I use this creative therapeutic writing personally and in my work with others as a way to befriend obstacles and transform them into light flickers meant to guide us more fully into ourselves.

Once upon a time there was an old widow.

She had long magical silver hair and only wore flowy comfortable clothes in shades of green and white. She lived deep in the forest, in a treehouse rooted in the earth, graced with spaces holding light and dark, nestled next to a beautiful sparkling lake. She was peaceful and knew joy.

Every day she slid from the top of her treehouse into the lake, splashing and giggling, playing with the water as the water played back.

She felt rebellious. Wild and unruly. And captivating. She loved wearing her own skin, scattering magic, riding waves of sparkles and sunshine.

But one day as she was splashing about, she saw the reflection of a girl.

She turned around, seeing a frightened child shivering on the bank, looking back at her with dark pleading eyes. The child was thin, bruised, wounded . . . the joy had been ripped away from her. She whispered to the widow. . . “Please help me.”

Because of that the old woman swam to shore greeting the child slowly and with great care.

She could see the malnourishment, the wounds, the places on her little body where her skin had been rubbed raw, torn, and sliced open. She was covered in dirt and grime. Her wounds were infected and sore.

Because of that, the widow knew in her heart she must move very slowly and with deep care and tenderness - as each touch, even a touch coming from love, would cause the child excruciating pain.

There was no way around this fact. They both knew this and they both wept. She offered the girl a sip of water. The girl drank and drank. She was so thirsty and so tired.

Because of that, the girl began to trust the old woman a little bit more.

She allowed the widow to take her hand and lead her into the treehouse, wincing softly as the cuts on her palm were held by another. She looked into the eyes of the widow, watching her draw a warm bath. The woman held her gaze, peering into the darkness of her eyes with kindness, waiting for the child to see and give permission to continue. The girl, with fear and sadness, let her remove the clothes that had adhered to her body during years of neglect, during all the time without love. She was embarrassed and ashamed and also knew without these droplets of care, she would die. The woman looked deeply into her eyes, gently holding her hands, and said . . . “This is not your fault. It is not your fault. I’m so sorry they couldn't see you, that they stole your joy.”

Until finally something deep within the child woke up.

Something sparked aliveness inside - even if just a teensy bit. She felt the woman’s soul reaching into her body, gently rubbing her dead parts back to life. A few tears trickled down her face. The woman lifted her small body into the bath, ladling warm water over the little one who had been battered and left behind.

Ever since then, the child has stayed in the treehouse.

The old woman, with her flowy green and white clothes, her magic silver hair, slowly and carefully tending to wounds, the hurts, the pains, nurturing the little one back into her body and into her life. Both knew her joy had not been stolen. It had gone deep into hiding, buried for safe keeping under the layers of pain and shame. Both knew they must go slowly in order to excavate her joy - for it had been threatened and hurt deeply. The girl was willing. The old widow was ready.

References

Digh, Patty. (2008). Life is a Verb

The Widow