Cocooned Healing

My sweet soul, how beautiful and majestic are you. You are the most beautiful soul I know. You’re the only song I know, my favorite tune. You belong up here with all of this beauty, it’s been calling you to complete you. Here you are, there you sit, in whichever cocoon you have self-created for yourself; a blanket, a car, his arms, your baptismal tub. You are never trying to become a butterfly, and that’s why you are the most fearless person I know. You understand that dying is the most beautiful way to live. You are a poet, the way you speak and love others inspires many. Our soul carries the fortitude of light, gives the inspiration that inspires the greats. And that’s what you are, my sweet, great. Simple. True. Enough.

There is no elaborate explanation, no spiritual language that disconnects you from others; no, you are tangible, physical, others can reach and hold on to your spirit. Although such distant mountains draw you, you aren’t them, grand, you are the grass, you are vast. Who you are goes on in the hearts of all you love, and you love all. You are the welcoming, rustling, nimble straight established in the ground, able to be plucked and pocketed, carried, and stored away. They aren’t the big picture but what makes the landscape entirely, what gives it color and proves there’s life. You are proof of life to so many around you. You are as human as you can be, swaying and singing and letting what must be – be, what must go – go, what must stay – root, what must die – wither, and what needs you to take from you. When I think about our abuse, it reminds me of the mountain’s exposed parts, raw and meaty, sunburnt, and bleeding. Your abuse hurt you and, in many ways, shut you off to yourself, made you feel as though you hadn’t been enough to heal the pain imposed onto you, because that is who you are, a healer. You are a divine craftsman. You understand that there is always a bigger story being told, and you are a storyteller. So you don’t worry about the cuts and bruises that surface from whacking weeds of a new path.
The splinters that bubble from woodworking or the burns from the stove for a new recipe. You don’t worry about the soreness from carrying your sister or the blisters from walking miles towards your lover. It doesn’t concern you the breath you loose from deep-sea diving to save the ocean from its predator or the bite marks accrued from running with the wolves. All you concern yourself with is the healing of your world. And when you come home and wrap yourself in your cocoon, it is known that the cure is within you. And so you sit. You transform. You are unwounded, and that’s inspiring my darling, that’s what has set you apart and set you up on this mountain. You are the most beautiful soul that I know, you are the only soul I claim, my favorite.

Accepting

“What kind of day is today going to be?”

I spoke to myself directly and succinctly, one that didn’t really warrant a response because, in a sense, I wasn’t asking, but demanding. I was desperately trying to call it out, whatever it was (it was you), and reel it in before it could suffocate the day. But just like a woman who fails to exercise her intuition frequently, I would be ambushed. You seeped through my defenses and consumed my imagination. Which knowing me, is much worse than my thoughts. Thoughts reflect reality, and I live under the surface. Today you lived there with me. I wouldn’t quite say I surrendered, but I didn’t defend myself against remembering. Don’t expect me to tell you what I had seen or what I feel about it. That level of self-deprecation no longer suits me. But most innocently, it was sweet. And that’s what drags me down, the good of it all. Those pieces that stand out and irritate my gaze in the most calming way. In the way, irritation arises briefly after you’ve broken the single most beautiful item you’d been saving since you were little. Because what gives it the weight to fall, what pushes it over the edge, is time. The longer something lasts, the more time we spend finding reasons to allow its absence to break our hearts (whether it’s worth the heartache or not) and who knows such answers to the matters of a wounded soul. But that is why I mustered up the authority to call out my truth because it never lies.

Committing

Life is good, pleasant. You are entering into a new beginning. One where you are unsure of how long you can hold on away from your element, before letting go, reverting, and re-adapting to the lessening of life within yourself. It’s entirely unclear which elements are most conducive for growth right now. It seems much more comfortable being in and out, balancing commitment to travailing while simultaneously dedicating oneself to mediocrity. Here you are, standing in the middle of a road, soul set on journeying, yet your heart hovers over your knees, and your head remains harvested. Will this lead me to my greatest desire? You continue to shove half baked promises down your throat and impose unrealistic expectations on your becoming. But what we choose to obey will always weed out our amble attempts. It leaves you with a premature end to an opportunity for rejuvenation. And what a terrible defeat, to have lived half erected. Are you satisfied with only having the capacity for a fulfilled life? “Here lies a wanderer, rich in imagination, suffocated by apprehension.” From where you stand, is fear still your comfort? Is it not far less terrifying to face the consequences of an oversaturated ego than to brave the commitment to prosperity?

Braving

Today I showed up.

I don’t show up every day.

Some days I can show up, but my body and soul revert against me.

Other days I have every intention to show up but forget to leave everything else behind, forget it takes work, forget it requires blood.

The other day I purposefully held myself back, as to say, I’ve come this far… You do the rest.

I remember one time showing up and telling myself the whole time that I didn’t deserve to be there.

More often than not, showing up gets lonely. On those days, I would almost prefer to spiral out of control, to elevate my ego and resurrect my pride.

One thing that remains the same, regardless of me showing up or cowering down, is fear. Fear of stepping up day by day, climbing, and persevering only to lose all my efforts, only to stain them with the insincere version of healing, I’ve convinced myself can plant roots.

But today, despite what may be the truth and in between all the lies, I found the courage to show up, to be here, and to belong to something real. To belong to the journey and the failure. To accept that there isn’t one without the other.

Yesterday my thoughts were flooded with self-hate.

Today, I showed up in all my glory, in all my imperfection. Today I trusted not in how I felt or how I would get where I’m going but in what I needed to be true:

You aren’t alone. You are loved. Your destination will never be here, so enjoy the journey.

Today I enjoyed my individual journey, tomorrow I hope to do the same.

Fermenting

Richard handed me a jar as to say, make yourself useful. I’m sure that’s exactly what he said,

“make yourself useful,” no, he said, “please help out,” they’re the same to me.

Everyone before me churned at the lid with lilting force. One woman gnawed on the corner of its opening like a dog chomping down on a bone, no, a man sucking on chicken cartilage, or like a woman snarling her teeth in frustration before ripping through her cheek. One particular woman seemed to almost succeed. But after all her efforts, she chose to leave it behind. I observed her. Her lips were small but rosy, and the quality of her teeth soothed my fear of breath steaming from the brim of the recently kissed jar. I wiped it off. Richard knows I hate social events, but here we are, entertaining uninteresting strangers who find themselves interesting. Richard doesn’t know this, but I’ve decided to be the mage tonight, I’ve decided to use this jar for scrying and looking through all the bullshit. My first attempts were benign, slow, and trying. I would never tell anyone, but quite frankly, I was ready to give up after my third arm-twist like everyone else had done. I don’t know why Richard asked me to do this, why he thought it could be done by me.

” We don’t need you anymore.”

And just like that, after all the effort and shared pain – rejection.

Granted, Richard was talking about the jarred beets, but they were quite literally a metaphor for me, weren’t they? He didn’t need me anymore, my efforts were too meek. Now I’m tempted to throw this jar on the floor, to watch it shatter until each purple glob explodes across the dining room and mysteriously finds itself on every plate- until I watch it glide down their throats.

But instead, I said okay, instead I asked what else he needed from me, and I meant it.

Richards favorite “co-worker” was in attendance tonight, remember the one with the rosy lips. Earlier in the kitchen, her hands caressed his arm in a way only a woman could recognize. I recognized it. Maybe she has halitosis, she seemed to love distracting him from her mouth in the direction of any other place on her body. I also noticed her picking at her plate and marshaling the table conversation. But I couldn’t focus on her boyish manner or lack of manners altogether, I was focused on the jar of beets sat atop the counter in the kitchen. Had anyone given them a second thought? I had. My thoughts played as the burial site for their purpose; for the 40 minutes, everyone in the room had caressed its hood and gave a damn about getting it open.

“Here liethe begotten beats of the century…”

“… the tough to crack jar.”

No.

“… the delicious yet daunting decision not to enjoy them.”

Or more rightfully,

“…THE FORGOTTEN.”

Which part of our heart decides to let go? Which part stays behind? I feel hurt, and yet I feel childish for contacting this hurt. But it’s real for me, letting go. What hurts the most? Having alacrity, a sort of hope, over something destined to be let go, to be forced into a re-imagination of what it means to me now.

———–

It’s been 3 hours since everyone left. I told Richard what I always tell him when I want to keep the depths of my emotions hidden.

“I want to miss you tonight, call me tomorrow?”

He won’t call, and the pang in my heart won’t settle. So I’ll sit on the floor of the room that was most recently filled with echos and energy, now emptied. I’ll gather what I need to remember to hold on. I’ll find a way to incorporate the pain, not obliterate it so that it wasn’t all for nothing. And after I place the beets safely in the jar, after I have pushed them down and sealed them off, I’ll recognize that although denial does you no good, forbearing those emotions helps you come back alive, in a new way. Like that, I’m locked into healing, dreaming new dreams, and rejuvenating the old ones. To fermenting these jar of beets, nobody else cared about. Sometimes the function of something comes to an end, and it must be repurposed. The purpose of neglecting is so foreign to me. How can you tell the difference between letting go of that which doesn’t serve you, or releasing what could’ve served you but was too hard to open? Who knows. In a little less than two weeks, these beets will beckon me again, not in the same way, because they’re different now, but in a way that will still bring me the hope, they once did.

Turmeric

And so after a night of celebrating the victim, I was jolted awake. Eyes wide with no evidence of what had demanded my consciousness. I opted for a second opinion as I gently folded my eyes shut. 

Eyes open. 

‘Good morning,’ she whispered, is what I recall. Her unequivocal nature was to whisper, to gently approach mastery. She stood before me, baring her breasts, the florescent light targeting the nape of her belly and casting a shadow to the trimmed willow between her thighs. I couldn’t imagine her face for the rawness of her skin banished my gaze, but she was beautiful, incandescent. That’s what I could make out through bowed eyes peering horizontally towards her.

In the morning, music plays. All is silent so you can hear the music play. Your breath sighs the faint tune of a guitar inhaling before its next strum. Your thoughts settle to a beautiful hum, one you can almost sway to. And before you can nourish your disposition, your stomach swirls around and belts its favorite tune, over and over again. Before the day begins, all is pure, nothing yet can be violent. Between the walking tempo and traffics, the peak is a sacred place to be. No one would dare kill a man during these moments, for he would be utilizing its blessing (the prime of the morning) to prepare for the kill. Yet, what a beautiful way to die, before anything can begin, everything waiting for you to rise, to bare. 

Her eyes remain on me, she is unashamed of surrendering to her budding essence. Still, she is immovable, non-threatening. Aware, but not exposing. The nature of her is nautical. It makes you feel light, as though floating weren’t enough, so you’ve come back down; she is the cascade. I recall my thoughts (predating their silence) requesting a quick, rescindable moment of her time. She is continuous. Her movements seemed to precede mine, so we followed her, and we danced. 

I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a morning, the last time I’ve set aside all intention to kill the day. I put down my plotting weapons to disarm beauty with tasks, denying fulfillment with expectations, killing the mythology of self through deprivation of joy. Refusing to dance with me. 

Eyes wide with my spirit fixed on consciousness, I opted for a second chance. 

Heart open. 

Mornings are for sipping tea, with fermented turmeric, for healing, and loving yourself enough to look her in the mirror and deem her worthy. To spend moments painting her magical and mysterious. They should never start out perfect, no, contrary, mornings are flawed and straightforward; they are moments and pauses filled with you.