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Changing of the Guards

Sitting on the edge of worlds colliding, she gathers strength. The inevitable is happening as much as she’s resisted it, questioned it, and at times laughed about it. The red wine hasn’t helped matters.

While grieving this passing season, there’s also been an element of gratitude in the unraveling of stories. So many fucking stories. Stories of past seasons and seasons to come, and some have been self-created while others placed upon her by well intending people, the media, or institutions. Many of them are outdated, or quite possibly, toxic.

And though the aftermath of unraveling can be a bitch, the gem reveals itself--a changing form of identity--a gracious body that has housed, kindness, and, madness, and infants, and pain, and love, and chaos, and peace. Rummaging through the frazzled threads of worn out notions has certainly made a mess, but the gem appears refined. It reflects her soul.

Life contracts and expands, naturally, and time marches on. With one hand on her beating heart and the other over her waning womb, she kisses the last essence of her Summer Self good-bye. A final tear surfaces--it isn’t wiped away by herself, or even another. This precious tear falls to the Earth like a seed.

Graciously, she accepts every wrinkle, every gray hair, every ache in her bones, and courageously, she bows to the shadow of fear. This shadow has mostly held her hostage and she thanks it, for simply wanting to protect her. She knows better than to damn the darkness. The work has been holy and this fear may serve her later when she does bump into that saber tooth tiger.

Releasing her shadow from duty, she compassionately embraces herself with the arms that have held her babies, her lovers, her sisters. Opening them to the sky, she reaches for, and welcomes the autumn of her life.

© 2017 Tyrse Fayewood

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