I took myself to the small kitchen in my flat and quietly turned myself to liquid. I filled a large carafe and poured the elixir of self back into my body, breath and all the spaces in between. The gurus called it grounding. The poets called it coming home. I called it being safe. Safe, at last.
That was the investment. One the universe recognised as respect. “To respect you, is to respect me”, she whispers. Oneness: how you always show yourself. And so; dividends come. On an unassuming weekend in late March, where residues of winter hang in the air and residues of me condense on the walls of the carafe on the countertop of my small kitchen.
They come as specks of gold that line your pupils; full as solar eclipses. They come as soft, gentle waves in a space we just painted together but you hold it so well. I didn’t know there could be so much Yin in one room and yet I melt into it with such ease, into you with no fear and deeply into me. Is this what it is to feel safe?
It’s a work of art. The care you take is almost overwhelming. The deliberateness of every brushstroke, every moment, every kiss you plant on my bare shoulders. In this space I see myself so clearly as an embodiment of feminine grace and divinity. I’m strong, but quietly so. I’m pure but wrapped in consciousness. This is flow. This is delicious.
You are healing me in ways you will never know. In ways you don’t need to know. And since I don’t experience myself as broken anymore, I don’t come crashing down. I float, with a little caution, of course, to the part where I feel my feet back on the ground, back to the body, back to the breath, back to the spaces in between.
As the late March weekend simmers in my cells, I walk barefoot into the small kitchen in my flat. The carafe sits on the countertop. I look at it. There’s consciousness in it too. I wait for this energy to integrate and as it happens, I quietly turn myself to liquid and fill the large carafe only to pour it back into myself. Again.
I am safe now.