Today was a long day, filled with beautiful contrast of the things I am letting go and the things I am embracing more and more. I emptied the garbage with gratitude, read stories to women that awoke memories in their bones, stifled about 6 yawns in a single session. I do not regret. I only learn.
Someday it will all be as it should be, and I will feel no different. I will still get frustrated, and feel small sometimes, and wish the heater was more efficient, and lose myself in the setting of the sun. I will forget the grocery list and try to make one more trip before filling up the gas tank. I will need space and get my buttons pushed. I will feel lonely sometimes. I will cry, always, for the little one inside me who believes she isn’t and can never be safe.
There is no true relief from this being human, really. Only the wave, the crest and the trough, getting closer to the stars then farther away. How I miss the stars, my sisters. I feel them up there rooting me on but also mourning the gap of where I’m missing, moored here on the earth. A place I freely chose, but now often regret. I do not like the feeling of smallness, contraction, of jealousy and bitterness. Feeling so helpless that giving up seems the only empowered thing to do. And I know I chose it—the whole thing, the crest and the trough, the distance from my star-sisters, so I could see that incredible castle, and wipe my child’s tears, and roast a chicken, and hike eleven miles so sore and stiff I fall dead asleep the minute I get into my sleeping bag. So I could storm downstairs with my glass of wine, my own tears choking in my throat, honoring whatever pain is coming now, luxuriating in being alone and furious.
Being human is a funny thing. And there is relief sometimes, in magic and dancing and the smell of the forest during a hard rain and the woosh of the goddess over my back in the belly of the earth, toes in freezing, healing waters. Relief in the crackle of the fire and sheets fresh out of the dryer, a perfectly poached egg, and a Sunday morning mimosa. In writing. There is relief in that, in listening to my truth and allowing it to have a voice, even if it repeats itself and needs to speak in pictures to allow the sob to come and subside, wave after wave.
The moon came into one of my sessions today. In a shower of stars, it called one of its daughters back to remember where she truly came from. It was beautiful to witness this knowing, a clicking back into place, the sense of belonging surging through her, with a remembering that she chose this life too, and it is not her entirety of existence. She will one day return to the moon, and miss this exquisite life, even though it has caused her more pain than could ever be imagined.
There is no place but this place. There is no here but here, in my body, my breath moving in and out, the memory of far away places a whisper of a dream, but the moon is here now too.
