The Other Woman

How do I begin?
When the higher truth finds it’s way to my knowing heart
But my stubborn and broken bits continue to feast on lies.
When my eyes trick me, and reflection balloons and morphs..
How did I, all those years ago… Break the mirror and silence the hounds

I remember the feeling of stepping out of bed one day, how light my foot fall felt. Like hovering a few centimeters off the wood floor – as I dressed with ease and left the house without second thought.
Nothing had physically changed in my body to allow me to rise with this new weightlessness.
What had changed, was the conversation I was listening to happening within.

I keep trying to get back to that girl
And perhaps that is where my problem lies
Getting back instead of moving forward.
I loved that girl so much.
But I am no longer her, barely recognizable.
I knew that the moment I turned 27. I had just surpassed the future guiding self. And here I am, nearly alone. Guided by a 60 year old crone. Waiting for my more recognizable self to rescue me.
And… Maybe that self is here. Now.  In this moment.
No divine intervention of picking my crying self up off the floor.
Just me. Now.
The woman who knows better. Who’s done this before. Who has busy work to do, with seeds growing in many pots – tending to and cherishing.

Perhaps I need distance to clearly see that the depression that swallowed me up then was so very linear to the depression I only just woke from. Still hungover, perhaps, as my body continues shifting and giving energy and life source to another.

***

The other woman

I’ve been guided by her since I was 21 – the future self coming to me and befriending me. Guiding me along, partnered and friendship.
At 27 – a year that I knew in my heart to be a big transformative year, the baby that bled from my body and the depression that bled from my heart.
My guiding self, while shifting out of post partum depression – is a silver haired crone. Who would bow to me and thank me for bringing this body to yoga. For taking these moments to myself in the midst of motherhood – the wisdom to know that this is good, this is holy, this is necessary.
The ways, after miscarriage, that a higher self simply stepped in and knew the rituals and care to do to honour this time. The oils every night, the candle lit vigil, the hot soaks every Monday in prayer to my body, to my womb, to the baby that will forever be swirling within my DNA.  She stepped in and simply took care, silently, like a good midwife – without announcing who she was, what she looked like, she simply was meeting me in my place of need.

and now.. I feel as if I’m walking alone, the crone ever there, of course – but where is my 32 year old self? or. just.. someone.
Hello Me, it’s Me, are you there?

Why am I so lost? Is this the cycle spin around the sun from 27-30? The lost years of re-searching and finding and discovery of what I know to be true? Shedding bullshit and stepping on up to reclaim without apology?  The years of recognizing I know nothing and everything, the years of *unlearning*, the years of learning to nourish myself wholly. The years of learning how to listen.

I am other. I am ether.
I am neither here nor there.
Limbo waiting…
Hibernating roots.
Crocus and cicadas – everything in it’s right season.. crawling out of the dirt without rush.. all in their own time.

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