Armadillo

Julia loved the Sandra Boynton book, But Not the Armadillo. Well, she mostly loved pointing to the page where the chicken plays the violin. She would keep turning back to that page because she wanted to hear her cousin, Hannah, play an actual violin. It was one of the first times I remember her communicating with me about her desires. How creative she was to use the pictures to say what she couldn't say yet with words.

Today in my counseling session, the armadillo came up again. Armadillos have a flight or fight response to predators and curl up in balls under their armor to protect themselves. The counselor was helping me understand panic attacks and some of my most distressing reactions to grief and pain. I related to the armadillo. Here's a little poem that captures some of my experience in those distressing moments. Perhaps it's my image to capture what I can't otherwise say in words.

Armadillo

Oh, little armored one,
curling into your shell.
Can't find a place to run.
Can't find a way to yell.

With no one there to love you,
and no one there to love,
is it your own emotion
or affection you're scared of?

You want the covers pulled up over you,
to be tucked in, safe and sound,
to be rescued from your nightmare,
so you roll upon the ground.

You've found your own protection,
where there's no longer room for doubt.
Love can't hurt you in your ball.
At least...none will trickle out.

But oh sweet armadillo.
You won't stay curled forever.
I hope you know I like your shell,
but I like you even better.