It's a Practice

I light a candle. Insert my AirPods into my ears. Press play on my meditation playlist.

I open my eyes in my mind. I’m met by hard, cold, gray rock. The sound of water dripping.

The door in front of me, also made of rock, has no handle. I shoulder it open. Step into her prison, a cave.

A small fire torch stands in a bracket on the wall. She lies on the floor, her back to me. A bucket for her waste nearby.

Chained to the wall.

Naked.

Muddy.

Her dark hair, waist-length and matted. I count her ribs. I speak.

She stands up. A puddle of muddy water at her feet. She turns to face me.

Her mouth sewn shut with rough, wide, angry leather stitching. Her eyes wild, sad, accepting. In shock, I leave.

I return. Many times. Earn her trust visit by visit.

I ask if she will allow me to remove the sutures. She places a hand on her crotch. I ask her to lie down on the floor.

With scissors and tweezers I snip each stitch and remove it. From her mouth. From her genitals.

I convince her to bathe. And dress. And eat.

She is The Mute. Gaslit. Silenced.

I don’t require her to speak. But she shows me her memories. My memories.

Childhood memories. Disconnected. Trivial.

Stand too close and you see brushstrokes, but not the masterpiece itself. Connected, the memories paint a picture that reveals the truth of my life. Her truth changed everything.

It was the stiff breeze that tipped the largest stone in the circle, and each neighboring stone of self crashed to the ground. She has sisters. So many sisters.

She is also The Mother. She dries their tears. She keeps their secrets.

She holds space for their pain. Memory after memory … teach us to silence ourselves. Teach us to abandon ourselves.

Teach us that this is normal. Distract us with productivity and make-up tutorials. Convince us we have no worth unless we have worth in your eyes.

She is woman. She is power. She is feared.

And she is now unstitched.

She wakes.

I wake.

Wake.

And rise.