This is important; the bones are moving under my skin.
When I told him, he said to me, “When you let go of what isn’t real, there is room for what is real to assume more natural placement.”
The interesting thing about this is that some of what wasn’t real went out of my hands, leaving them clearer and truer, and oddly more streamlined. They now slip easily into the cuffs that I beaded “wrong”, that I made too small. Perhaps I made them for my real self, and actually beaded them right. Right, wrong; I can see that these are more abstract concepts than I realized.
I go again tomorrow; twice a week until I get on a plane and head to Germany and Paris. Three more weeks, six more times. It’s a beginning, small, earthshaking.
There were slender needles in the wells above my collarbones; the first time they sat in tiny oceans of my tears, small seas which held the reverberations of my life; tiny wombs for me to emerge from smaller, like a snail.
The second time they perched in even tinier wells, small drops of blood from my heart. Tomorrow night they may sit in salt water, they may sit in blood, but they will also sit in light, because it occurred to me that it was possible; I remembered what I had read, “breathe light into the needles.”
I discovered last time that I could overwrite corrupted segments of my hard drive with music; knowing this, I have the opportunity to choose carefully.
Today one of the hawks tried to come through my window; he was going very slow and was unhurt, but he left a slight wing-print so that I know it wasn’t a dream.