Healing with Nostalgia and Creativity

There are times when we are at a crossroads in life.  Times of transition often are accompanied by nostalgic recollections and resurfacing lessons: we are clear to see the patterns of the past, how they have culminated into our present and what we need to do to point ourselves in our true direction for our future.

One of the exercises that I've found to be beneficial in the healing process is to write a fanciful story based on the past.  Be as liberal with your creativity as you would like - let the story just bubble up and the characters will start to create themselves.  You may be quite surprised at what surfaces when you attempt this healing exercise.

Here is a story that came to me.

3 Characters:
Mom, Prissy (younger sister) and Agnes (older sister)
Background:
Prissy learns to keep her head down because she sees what Agnes induces upon herself with her exuberant and inappropriate actions (i.e. spitting, talking with boys, coming home late and dirty without informing Mama, etc.)
Prissy could pick on her sister and would, as siblings do, except Agnes picks on her, amiably instead, as older sisters with exuberance and a need to dispel it, tend to do.  One example: sometimes Agnes would tickle Prissy until she peed.  Agnes would get in trouble and would have to clean it up.

(The story is told from Prissy's point of view)

Sometimes Agnes would tell me these horrible stories about how Mother and Father had other, previous children before us who died at a young age, or that our parents were really aliens that ate children and we'd better be cautious.

I think she even had nightmares about it.

Agnes would come in late, after the rest of us were sitting at the table ready to eat dinner.  

She was dirty and moody, and hadn't forewarned mother where she had been or that she'd be late.

Dinner was fairly stilted.  Cool whipped mood on the top layer, anger and frustration the pudding.

Agnes' mood could and would change frequently.  It was hard to keep up.

Father told her to stop singing at the table and then made a rule about it when she did it again.

Resolved, subdued, still willful, Agnes ate dinner in silence.

The rest of us talked about our days and pretended everything was ok.

Sometimes my stomach hurt when we had meals like that.

Agnes would go up to her room and listen to music, light candles and write in her journal.  I think she was always trying to sort things out, even when she was young.

We went to church.  We sang duets together.  We went to church camp together.  We were in the youth group and VBS together every year.

We took piano lessons.  We played duets.  We competed in front of so many judges and won so many awards, together and as soloists.

We believed in God.  We believed in family.  It was what we knew.  We were sheltered that way - protected by our parents who always wanted only the best for us.  They just didn't always know best.

I don't blame Agnes for getting me into trouble with her sometimes.  Hanging out with her is always fun.  Sometimes dangerous.  But yeah, always enlightening.

We liked to drive late at night

when it was really dark - way out on the country roads where there were no lights, only empty cornfields.  

The radio would be loud. The music was intentional, a mixed tape she made, or some other mystical music.

The air outside would be chilly - but the windows in the car were down and the moon-roof was open.  The heat was on full-blast.

We saw deer.

The road was dusted by swirling snakes of snow as we drove along, carefree and in our own minds.

We could not see any further than the beam of our own headlights.  It was magical.

We stopped to gas up and she brought back chocolate and drinks for us.  We didn't know where we were.  Some little gas station out in the middle of the country, everything else was closed down and dark this time of night.

Only the phone booth was lit up. 

We got back into the car and she changed the tape to something serene this next jog into the fog.  Classical guitar music will always remind me of that night.

Somehow she always finds herself back safely home and we slide into the house, hoping not to disturb anyone.

Since I'm with her, they really are lenient.

We go upstairs and start to dream.

That's what life is like with her - unpredictable and exciting.

I think it scares mother, and that's why she's so hard on my sister.

She's always saying, "Don't ruffle feathers!" and Agnes, well, she's just a feather-ruffeler by nature.

It's better now that mother's stopped trying to preen Agnes.

I was actually kind of jealous of my sister, truth be told.  And I know she was jealous or at least resentful of how respectable and un-rufflely I was.

We were at odds sometimes, but I always loved her and she loved me, too.  That was never in question.

We drifted apart when she moved away.

When I see her, it's always a delight.