old wives tales day 2 at nautilus teachings

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she breathes in
grabs on tight to
the wooden railing
all the while
urging herself to know
“i can do this,”
while at the same time,
remembering
tumbling down these steps
and landing with a thump,
then looking up
and seeing her tiny selfs
reflection upon the
clear glass knob.
the image of
empty pages
feathering
begin to fill up
inside her head
as her feet continue climbing
she must share her story
she must release her color
and all her images
inviting all women
to come in,
sit down and smile
for just a little while…
step three feels cold
she senses a creeping
vine-like feeling
encompassing her feet
and quickly
covering her shins
gazing down
her skin is ablaze
with color
toes in every hue of blue
feet filled up with
small whimsical fish and
waving seagrasses are
now climbing up her legs…
she giggles
steadies herself
then sits down upon
the cool inviting surface…
she did not realize
how hard it would
be to leave her shame behind
she had grown up
tethered to
the words
the feelings
the emotions
in an odd way
they were her friends
her home
her hiding place.
rising up the
red wooden steps
meant she was choosing
to be brave
to find the courage
and accept herself
as worthy-

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she was born
a broken
beauty in the corner with
golden locks cascading upon
her silky, small back,
wisps flocking to block her tears…
she was,
silent grace
sitting in the corner
head bowed in prayer
with tears gliding down her cheeks
eyes so big, brown and fractured
by memories of hurt, destruction
of feeling unloved and unwanted…
her wings were broken,
knees scuffed
with toes and legs both curled
tight against her chest
her memory of
being held by the arms
which picked her up
cradled and loved her
are all that sustain her…
she was a sweet child who struggled
to be heard,
who fought to be seen,
who struck out from pain…
yet heard God beckon her to come out of her corner,
to let Him mend her wings and lace them
with golden strands of faith,
and a mother’s love…
she wants to feed her the knowledge of her years
to take her hand and help her walk the path to discovery…
the aching,
the wanting to let her tiny feet
leave behind the dusty, dirty, damp smells
the corrosive images,
the shiny daggers and the ugly words…
she hears the song and feels her tiny angel wings
as she sits in the corner
wanting desperately to unfurl,
to soar and let the world see her true palette…
yet she cannot.
as dusk falls
light dances
and God’s grace
softly descends upon her wings…
they quiver, hesitate
and then slowly ebb,
washing over her stillness ,
her silence…
she sits quietly
waiting
for atonement of
her life of sin.
her velvet feathers hang
scarred against
her long silky golden tress
each missing quill
a memory told within the
mapped tattoos
housed upon her receptive core.
she is open for healing
for the balm of faith
to mend her wings
and lift her up in flight.
she is frightened
her wings ripple like short whispers
faith has insulated her from
raw forces
inconceivable to the eyes of a child
and still playing out like a broken
strip of film before her adult eyes…
she feels a swirling
feels the coolness of blue
encompass her flashbacks
locking them away
choking their breath
and sending them crashing
to the depths of the ocean floor
as her burdens are lifted and she
spills forth words in prayer
then to page
and finally onto canvas
always conscious of the struggle
raging amidst absolute truth
and violated life

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