Singing Over My Bones
Pulling toward me the fragmented pieces.
The shattered bits of self, like my bones, scattered and missed-placed.
Gathering the sacred tools that I’ve sharpened along on the way.
Excavating my psyche to find my soul. Rewiring neurons to smooth out resistance.
Carefully selecting a fine needle and thread to stich up my broken heart and opened flesh.
There will be scars.
If we live long enough something is bound to break.
Lucky are those whose meticulously curated self-portraits of perfection are shattered.
Singing over my bones
a song of remembrance and forgiveness
for the promises broken and mistakes made,
for second chances and detours taken.
Now is for reflection. An occasion to explore the seen and unseen.
This is a ubiquitous encounter with the self, embraced wholeheartedly.
It’s rare to profoundly rest.
It’s rare to let everything fall away and relax into being.
On all accounts, convalescence isn’t considered “lucky”.
I feel lucky.
Lucky enough to rest where I am and sing over my bones.
I sing over my bones the song of strength to overcome.
I sing over my bones the song of gratitude for having access to care.
I sing over my bones the brave song of the wounded who is eager to heal.
I sing over my bones in praise of the biological miracle that I am, that we are.
With a shaky and determined voice I invoke a new song,
embarking on a long-awaited frontier.
My bones hear my song.
My bones know how to heal.
My bones remember.