Initiation

There comes a time in everyone's life when a step forward needs to be taken. Sometimes it is a step sideways. Hopefully, it should not be a step backwards...but then those are also taken...in fact, they must be taken in order to move two steps forward (sometimes on another plane or level of consciousness), so I understand. Monks are doing it all the time - Italian (Catholic), Chinese (Buddhist), Indian (Jain), Turkish (Sufi). They deny themselves physical pleasures and practice restraint in order that they may attain higher spiritualism. We do the same in our own little ways, at intervals...

These steps occur in different stages of one's life. Sometimes, they mark the transition from one stage to the next. And then there are those instances when one is simply taking steps in circles, mulling over and not letting go (the past year has been so, for me).

Last week, I heard of someone who had taken such a step forward, by undergoing a mastectomy. She had been unsure of it for a while, and had finally brooked an inner change before the physical change was made.

How must it feel to lose a part of oneself that defined one's image more than did any other part of one's body, I wondered? I don't know, really...I haven't been in that particular situation, fortunately.

And what of childbirth? After all, isn't the act of giving birth the very first cleavage (no pun intended, given the immediate subject) within oneself? Of mother and child, a split between the one and what has for 9 months been an inseparable part of oneself?

This poem is for all women who have undergone surgery, of any kind, really. With every birth, with every cut of the knife, we all take steps forward. The role of motherhood is really the crystallization of the self-denial monks and seekers of spiritual truth devote themselves to. While mothers don't actively seek spiritual growth, they are forced to when a trusting fledgling soul is thrust into their arms, and their primal memory to nurture (at all costs) is kicked into life. In this epic journey of self-development, women often lose a sense of their own selves. We don't need a mastectomy to remind us that we lose so much of our selves while caring for others. These bodies of ours are mere shells compared to the fire that rages within us to fulfil our one superior purpose in life. If we have managed to raise our children into good, conscious, happy, and well balanced adults, then that is reward and success enough!

This poem is a reminder to women that our physical, mental, emotional selves often take a beating post the mid-20s. Whatever be the changes, losses, or gains (yes, there are gains, if we seek and grab them), we musn't forget to keep re-inventing ourselves as stronger, more adaptable, happier individuals. Don't forget your dreams, your wants, and don't forget to pat yourselves on the back at the end of each day.

A New Day

Adrift on a ripple of white sheets,

She surveyed the patch of sky

Contained by a picture window.

Yesterday, she had blinked into the light,

Naked.

Heart pounding.

Throat tight.

Supine.

Cold.

“Look at me,” the High Priestess had commanded,

“And keep counting…”

She had obeyed,

And after she had lost consciousness,

They had begun their rites,

Begloved,

Antiseptic.

She had had war paint slathered on,

Had been cut and pierced ,

Sewn even,

To mark the passage.

Now, she sat,

Tattooes pulsing,

Proudly wearing her scars.

Her heart soared through

A forest of fear,

Lifting with the mountains,

And broke out where the tree line

Met the snow, exultant.

She was an eagle,

A flash,

Triumphant.

She was a veteran,

Her badge of courage

A red, patched chest.

She was an Amazon,

Unfettered by her height, or weight, or age,

Or left breast,

Coursing ahead with her soul,

Guided only by the dazzling beauty

Of her iron will.

She waited,

Until the attendants had plucked away

The cords that bound her,

And unfurled a smile

To begin a new day.