The True Self Is Not

The Feminine Journey Is A Story Unfolding, And Its Epiphanies Come Through Real Things, Through Tangibles Like Walking Sticks And Dreams And Deer Antlers--all Of Which We Might Miss Without Taking Time And Space In Deep Being.

There's Release In Knowing The Truth No Matter How Anguishing It Is. You Come Finally To The Irreducible Thing, And There's Nothing Left To Do But Pick It Up And Hold It. Then, At Last, You Can Enter The Severe Mercy Of Acceptance.

Probably One Or Two Moments In Your Whole Life You Will Hear A Dark Whispering Spirit, A Voice Coming From The Center Of Things. It Will Have Blades For Lips And Will Not Stop Until It Speaks The One Secret Thing At The Heart Of It All. Kneeling On The Floor, Unable To Stop Shuddering, I Heard It Plainly. It Said, You Are Unlovable.

I'd Forgotten How That Sort Of Craving Felt, How It Rose Suddenly And Loudly From The Pit Of My Stomach Like A Flock Of Startle Birds, Then Floated Back Down In The Slow, Beguiling Way Of Feathers.

It Was The In-between Time, Before Day Leaves And Night Comes, A Time I’ve Never Been Partial To Because Of The Sadness That Lingers In The Space Between Going And Coming.