I am going to dance wildly in the rain, the dance my mother danced when I was curled in her womb.
Softly and strongly supported, fibers intertwined, layer upon layer, my sling.
She held me as she danced.
That wild dance of forgiveness, that wild dance of surrender, of strength and courage, vulnerable to the night.
She danced… and I will dance that same dance my mother danced, when I was curled in her womb.
I am going to paint the garden golden, under moonlight, like my grandmother painted, as she watched me sleep.
Each stroke of brush, as soft as her caress on my youthful cheek.
Fingers gliding across rose petal lips and button nose.
Painting the garden safe, painting the gardens growth, of nourishment, of beauty, of energy and glow.
She painted… and I will paint the garden so, the same as my grandmother painted, while she watched me sleep.
I will wear a hat of fine silver hair, like the hat my great grandmother wore, as she shone her light into my core.
Each fine silver hair, spun, a sturdy thread.
That hat placed a top her head, a crown.
The queen of the wild ones to come.
She wore that hat… and I will wear that hat proud, the same my great grandmother wore, as she shone her light into my core.
But until those days arrive, with fine silver haired hats, painting gardens, and dancing in the rain… I will hold myself tall, with the knowledge of those women before me, standing strong for the women ahead.
And I will write my own story, with the wisdom, shared.
A pen of sunshine ink, perfumed honeysuckle and jasmine, writing with ease a story of my own self.
That story written across my heart, and slowly I will let you all see it, the language of my caress, my warmth.
I will use colloquial language, and my broken speech; you must be patient and promise not to preach.
I teach myself slowly. Each letter a reminder.
Writing my life before me, writing my life’s story.