I had not realized how thin I had become.
Not true. I knew I had evaporated. I knew I was a ghost of myself, a zombie, a robot performing tasks but not alive. I completely comprehended Bilbo: ‘I feel like butter scraped over too much bread.’
I was filled, renewed, solidified, thickened. No longer a thin sweat of a soup.
I am like a lovely, luscious, golden, flavorful butter.
My pain was witnessed, verified, validated, held in sacred space. All my private acts of sobbing and mourning and screaming my pain into the universe were no longer silenced in the void of human shame. Sorrow no longer was merely a frog prince sitting to my left, staring at me with eyes like pools of pain. My rage could be expressed rather than allowed to swallow me whole. My anguish became a sound that reverberated around the room and the hearts of all the women who came to share, to care, to hold the space for me to expose my deepest horrors and face them in utter safety.
My renewal was equally validated and rewarded and celebrated. If misery loves company, renewal loves a party! As the limbic system is wired to tie pain with memory, so it can tie joy with memory. Ending in a joyful state, so the pain can be transformed within the pathways of the brain, hopefully to create as lasting a bond with the deeply experienced joy as with the previously deeply experienced pain.
Birth and death. Death and birth. Trips to the underworld to reveal that which drives our own personal hells, and reemerging triumphant and reborn. I danced with Kali. I flew with the black crows. I screamed my anger and defiance to the universe.
I am still sitting with the goddess where she entered me. I am still allowing my self to be rewritten from within, my calling of magic, or self trust, of personal truth. I will do all I can to mold these things deep within my unconscious being before the world of work and TV and chores to be done wipes away that sense of being, of who I am, of what I choose to be.
Like slowly drinking on licorice tea, the places where I should sense bitterness, in after glow are instead so sweet and alluring that I drink of them over and over and cannot get enough. The memory draws me back. The sacred space so filled with tears and sharing and triumph. As I am truly of the goddess, so sacred space must follow me and surround me and be of me ever more. Her priestess, her finger, her eyes and hands and sensations and sex and pain and nightmares and dance and loves and hates and dreams in this realm which is the same as any realm.
Understand me, if you dare.