It's a Practice

(Written Nov. 2, 2025)

Standing in a dark hallway.
The door I stepped through is closed.
But I can see a sliver of light underneath.
I kneel down on the floor, press an eyeball to that crack between floor and door.
That’s everything. I see it all so much more clearly here than from that side, the side with so much muddy light.
I try the handle.
It turns. My stomach jumps into my throat.
Heart pounds.
I don’t want it to turn.
Can this door be locked?
I don’t want the me that I was sneaking into the hallway through that door.
I’m letting her go.
I don’t want the they that they are sneaking through that door.
I’m letting them go.
I need a lock.
Are there helpers, allies in this hallway? Someone to help lock this?
It’s so dark here.
I remember Fire Heart, my lion, is always with me.

I ask him, “Why is it so dark here?”

He answers, “Because it’s nighttime here.”

“Can you help me lock this door?”

“You have the power to lock it.”

“Yes but am I allowed.”

“You don’t need anyone’s permission but your own.”

As my eyes adjust, I notice there are other doors here.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Infinite.

I ask no one, “Can I open one of these other doors?”

I hear her voice. It sounds like my voice.

“Only if you lock the one you stepped through,” she answers.

“If I do that I can’t go back.”

“You cannot step forward into your future without releasing your past.”

I exhale. “I’m afraid I’ll get lost here in the dark.”

“There’s no need to fear the dark.”

“How do I move forward without light?”

“All the light you need is inside you. You are the light.”

“How do I lock it?”

“Create a weave of words and remember without holding.”

“I’m allowed to remember? Won’t that tempt me to go back?”

“Remember, without holding. You remember who you were and how you got here, so that you don’t travel that path again accidentally. Remember the lesson with love in your heart and without regret, forgive them and forgive yourself. Only travel forward with intention.”

“So this is goodbye then?”

“Yes. If you’re ready to lock the door and choose another, you must say goodbye.”

“But I’m on this side of the door. They are on the other. How do you say goodbye without saying goodbye?”

“You simply walk away. Exhale. And walk away.”

“Will I ever see them again?”

“Not this version of them, no. They also travel and close doors behind them.”

“Can I talk to the door?”

“Do whatever you need in this moment.”

I turn to my dragon. To my lion. “It’s time.”

“With Fire in my belly, a gift from my dragon,
With Lion’s breath, his gift to my heart space,
With Water from my eyes, a gift from the Mother,
I seal this door.”

I shift.

I am the dragon. I fire the door’s handle, melt the tumblers.
I breathe fire around the hinges, the edges, at the gap.
Water from my eyes douses the flame.

I shift.

I turn to Tlachtga.

“I have no earth to offer.”

“The Great Mother holds you. You travel together. Always.”

Silence.

My eyes adjust, again, to the darkness. I place my hand on the knob of a door near me.

“Will it hurt?” I ask her. “When I shift to walk through this new door? Will it hurt?”

“Yes. But it’s okay,” she says. “You can scream.”