“I need to feel myself in my skin again,” the woman said.
I couldn’t remember the last time I baked cookies in my kitchen.
All the baking sheets caked with grease and needing replacing. The walls smaller. The white paint turned grey from the living of little hands, boy dirt (quite unique stuff) and neglected cleaning supplies.
Realities of three children readying for the next stages of development (she is babysitting and menstruating, he is making his own noodle packets and talking about girls, he is scootering around the block and eating every 5 minutes and laughing manically). Holding onto the snuggles of the last one who still feels almost baby like to my body. He leans into me and twirls my hair.
Watching my hands present light brown age spots.
I make a truly fine chocolate chip cookie.
Her friends came and the celebration wasn’t. She could feel the end of what was, making space for the next. Doorways hurt her in places she doesn’t realize she has. She knew that each had carried the other to the place where freedom and love release the old bits.
They all felt the fear, gave it voice and expanded.
Her needing was replaced with longings for a new edge.
The quieting of my voice, my fingers always typing it as fast as the moments revealed, became my prayer. The quieting so I could hear something greater than my ego. I don’t need an answer. I feel the truth of decades of women looking down at the spots on their hands and knowing that the wisdom is to quiet the questions and feel the day, if just for moments.
Laundry asks no questions. Cookie dough forming into balls pressed onto cold baking sheets asks no questions. Fresh white paint is creation and calm. The meditation of morning coffee as an act of service. A love language. A reminder to stop asking what will happen and just sip.
The little just asked me for more food. After granola bars, peaches, toast and milk. I am his answer.
She said, “You never said that to me before.” Then the woman fell back into questions, reached her hand into the deep, deep pockets sourced with pleasure.
All my visioning circled around movement, peeling and the rise.
She couldn’t feel herself in her own skin but I must. Can the words “I’m sorry” release pain into new desires? As summer teases and the wardrobe starts to change, more skin revealed from the layers, will the feeling be of touch?
“My fingers want to type my heart again.” She had sipped her tears in the hush and the words once again felt like the happiness of the sun.