The Story That Heals

There are times when the heart beats like wings of quail scared into flight by a pursuing hawk.

Those are the times when a story is trying to be born.

It is gestating in the steamy folds of flesh at the core of you. It is what you have wanted all  your life, a heart's desire both powerful and fragile. It refuses to die, even when locked away in solitary for a lifetime. It is the message that we carry into this life, the words we are supposed to find and utter to the ones we love, and to the ones we don't.

The story can explode in a fit of rage and exhaustion that threaten to bring down empires of habit. It can exhale in a whisper after making love. It is made of the words that expose and lay bare and liberate.

The words terrify. You don't want others to know what they are. Your life depends on letting others know what they are.

The words are there, but have to be earned. They are wild horses that must be drawn down from the mountains by handfuls of sweet grass. The grass is grown by you over years patience and cultivation and faith.

They come snorting mist in the chill of morning. They whisper I forgive you. They pull you to your feet and call you home to the woods, to the words that wait for you to give them breath and life.

It is what you want the world to see of you, the you that is true, that is your birthright, your destiny.

And it is right in front of you, visible when you have the eyes to see it, the silence to hear it, and the willingness, the presence of mind, to remember. What are they? The wild, skittish, and beautiful words?