Isn’t it funny the stories we tell ourselves? Because I have words that need to end up on a screen somewhere to be read I suddenly cannot write. My fingers go all staccato on the key board and I forget that I can breathe that my ribcage has the capacity to expand and contract. That if I wanted to I could even slide my fingers underneath my bottom most rib and feel into such a private space.
What I feel instead is this overhanging darkness blurring the outlines of everything. I am not struggling I am nothinging. I am fighting my own self. Because? Because I want to give something complete. I want to create in mirrored worthiness of each blessed life. I want to be of service.
I end up pushing myself away from my desk to go reclaim my cat. I am sure she is in my neighbor’s house again. They have taken to feeding her and letting her in. I beg them not to but a myriad of life blooded reasons makes them unable and unwilling to listen. It is a situation I don’t know my way out of. I go there and get her. I put her in my house and shut the door behind me. I stand in the front yard.
I am still blurred out.
Slowly I wake up to the basics – almost by mistake. I see earth. I see grass. I see sky. I see sun. I see sunlight in the sky bouncing off layers of clouds and the the trees silhouetted against all this brilliance and I soften. I am not sure why I got so upset. Why I jump to assume the most terrible. Why I think you only want to read perfection.
The sky she reminds me of so much. Expansiveness. And more than that even just the feeling of being okay. So, she told me this, Just tell them what you wrote.
A list of secrets you are free to know as the veils thin:
That the exact map of the stars – of the galaxies – lays in your own body of flesh.
That you may curl yourself up and rest in the negative space left by the crescent sliver of the waning moon.
That if you turn due west and close your eyes you may taste the truth of the wind.
That is is possible to make anything a vessel of sacred.
That the children will spin and dance anticipating the thinning. Their own systems still tuned to the Mystery of the Universe.
Magic resides in the ordinary.
When your bones are just bones you will have been whatever you have decided to be. You are free to step towards that.
That there may be parts of your own heart that have taken cover in the gentle sway or rigid holding of your pelvic bowl – seeking safety and respite. Cup them gently. Introduce yourself when you feel ready.
Someone is wanting to hold your hand.
That some cords are scaly with age and sunk root like into your belly and still in just a few breaths we can dig them out, set them free, burn them to nothingness. That we are free to compress time to cultivate healing. This is fact.
That some witches survived. You may see them in the produce section of your grocery store in skinny jeans and boots. Or at the post office sending a care package abroad. Or reading quietly in the corner of the coffee shop.
In anything broken love is the answer.
The word yes is healing.
That some witches crossed over. They will teach you now from the dream world. They will cook down broths and stir mighty stews through the night and towards the end of it all they will look you square in the eyes letting you know how they love you as they hand you a steaming cup of divine. Without uttering a word. In a whole night of silence you will have been accepted into their particular ancestry of knowing. An unexpected gift rising out of the shadows of well lit mistakes.
You are free to indulge.
One plus two is three.
It is ok to forget. You will be reminded.
The veils will thin again. Like the moon will wax. Like your heart will beat each day. Like you will find darkened edges, and blurry, and sunlit clouds, and space to breathe. Life.
robin e. sandomirsky
luminary explorer. freedom igniter. warrior blooded game changer. bringer of truth, velocity, and golden embodiment.
i am a writer. i am a healer. i am home.
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