“I release you to your own indwelling god,” he said. And my first impulse was to correct the capitalization and hyphenate that which we do not understand fully with the mind.
I mean, I think he said that. It’s hard to tell… those last few days being such a blur. Snippets haven’t crept their way into my writing, like most other things have. Defense-mechanism? Metal fence? Good boundaries? Fear? What is that called?
This morning I awoke to the radio kindly announcing that it was Christmas, and something about it was perfect. Last night in my dreamscape one of my ridiculously good, close friends was pregnant and about to give birth and every time I called her child’s name, she had a contraction. Something about my hand in her hair, her breath hot against the cold windowpanes, and this miracle of life that was growing inside of her and ready to individuate.
“Release me,” I say. And I say it to all those in my past. Consensual and non-consensual encounters.
(And what ever happened to consentual?)
“Release me because I am not yours; I am mine. Release me because I am skipping toward the stars, and I like the way that sunlight feels against my skin. Release me. Release me. And I release myself from your grip.”
Time. Memory. Nostalgia. Release from being bound.
“I release you. I breathe you out. I cut all our psychic-ties and I send my blessings to you on the wind.”
Broken-open-hearted, but not broken. Broken open. Open-hearted. Open.
Primary partner to myself, loving myself with beginning, as Practice, as the cool of the deep sacred waters.
“Let me go, and breathe me out on the exhalation.”
This is not a plea, but a demand. Not even so much as a demand, as what must be.
“Allow my spirit to diffuse on the wind, and fall into the embrace of the Great Goddess. She will return my pieces to me.”
