How much of what I have been giving to this world really comes from source, or from the wounded child? How much of my desire is mine, and not his asking? He is in me, and his pain is the only thing demanding to be felt. The wounded child masks himself as a woman of rage and fire. He is skilled at concealing, a camouflage of the soul, changing shapes and forms. I was also fooled by his act, until now, when I feel with clarity his tugging at my feet, at the strings of my heart, my hair-tips. It was him all along.
I sit with him and he tells me the story of his own formation. I sit and listen, for I’ve run away from hearing him a whole life. Despite running, his story came through, permeating through all I offered and wrote and through all I have loved too much. His story made its way through the tapestry of my life like the thin filament of a river carving its path through hard rock and mountain. My life too has been a solid heavy mountain that craved to flow and become a sea. I turn to face him and listen, not to words, but to the space without the words. I am a mother of guilt forgiving herself for the absence, and in turn being forgiven. His story is not one of words, his emergence not out of body and matter. He is a body of feeling that contains all my yearnings, cravings of this life, he contains all the scars and stitches. I am a channel for his embodiment. The grief is not mine, but his – grief of never arriving, never reaching full maturation. My body a vessel for his expression.
I was born in his place, a seedling that spurted out of a death, my mother’s womb like a dark tomb, taking in me the remnants of his death.
And all this time, all that he wanted was to be seen, felt and released.
His story travels through me.
When my eyes go to find him again, he is no longer there.
I find only the space he left.
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