La Loba

It's raining outside. 

The clouds are swollen and dripping heaviness and the only thing I can think about is how long it's been since I've been able to stare out the window, completely free, and watch the rain fall. I've shut the door. This is another thing I haven't been able to do lately. I hear little lion on the other side, playing and laughing with Russ, and I know what his smile will look like when I open the door like the back of my hand. But for now, I am finding words. I am plucking them up from within and placing them where they belong in front of me. 

I feel whole. 

I have a person who folds inside herself when it rains. She's getting better, facing her melancholy when the weather turns grey and frigid, but she knows how this weather makes me unfold, and will text me every so often when the winds begin to shift. 

"This is a day for you," she says. "The Universe just gave you a gift." 

I'll do the same for her when the skies are crystal blue and the sun shines so bright you need protection. While I hide indoors and resist the heat, she'll shuck her clothing and embrace the way it presses into her skin.

"Look how the sun shines for you," I text her. "How are you celebrating today?" 

We need these people in our lives. People who despite time or distance or inability to "hang" they know the pathetic fallacy of weather on our lives. These people sing over us our own song, reminding us of our power when we tend to forget it. 

Hey. This day is for you. Use it. Own it. I'll be waiting on the other side. 

.::.

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I am in a gathering season. 

Back in the summer, a friend and I looked at each other and spoke of the shift we felt internally. 

"Change is coming, isn't it?" I said. She nodded, her eyes pensive. We didn't know why or what or how, but when you feel it, it's like your molecular structure begins to vibrate. A preparation. 

I wasn't ready. Whenever this happens, whenever I feel the shift but don't know what to make of it, I go inward. Words grow heavy in my throat, ready for release. But this time, I couldn't find a way to get them on to the page. 

I started asking myself, "who am I?" over and over, a broken record without a beat. Was I done writing? Was my identity changing? (I know. Typical 4, right?) But I wasn't used to this lack of knowing. I wasn't used to the inability to find some time to quiet my soul and listen. I felt like I was constantly going. Constantly growing. Constantly looking back and wondering what happened to the Elora I was just a few days before...

Somewhere, somehow, this question shifted into a knowing. I stopped asking who I was and started recognizing all of the pieces of me beckoning for attention.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. — Sylvia Plath

I started trusting myself more. My intuition sparked into awareness and I started knowing things I wouldn't be able to explain. I started speaking out and up and without fear because I recognized the Truth in my words. I realized those moments where I was growing and changing I was also mourning. I couldn't get the words out because they were not meant to be shared. They were meant to grow heavy with longing. They were meant to explode. 

This is what I'm gathering now. This is what I'm finding words for in this moment. 

.::.

I listened to a book recently. It was one I've read before, one that held an importance I couldn't quite articulate when I first picked it up a few years ago. As I listened to the story of La Loba, singing over the bones and living into this characterization of el rio abajo rio, I saw myself. I should have known this was coming. I'd been seeing wolves everywhere, lately. Pictures, posts, movies, shows, dreams — it was apparent I needed to pay attention to these messages. The vibrations I'd been feeling for months created a rhythm that centered in my gut and made my heart race. 

I am La Loba. 
I sing over bones. 
I awaken them. 
I help them remember. 

I wiped a tear from my cheek and picked up my journal, knowing now what needed to happen first. 

Before I could wake the bones, before I could join others in song, I needed to sing over myself — over the bones that had been neglected for too long. 

Posted on January 27, 2018 and filed under Soul Care, The Memoirs.