Sitting at the table with needle and thread, I’m eyeing the pieces of you, cast like discarded clothing, throughout the room.
I move from scrap to scrap, gathering muscle, sinew and bone, laying out the pattern of you in my mind.
My tears run freely at the sight of self-destruction, hitching a ride on my seamstress tracks and I bloody my face as I wipe them away, in between the gathering of you into my fold.
Arms fully laden I place you down, sorting the inners and the outers, the soft from the hard.
I trace the length of your thigh bone, all crimson and white and notice the fractures branching out like a lightning strike.
This is where the truth lies, where you folded beneath the heft of your pain. Such was the burden of your weighted soul that it crushed you from the inside out.
Fingers sticky with your glue I begin to sew you anew but I need to tell you, need to tell you you’re wrong.
Young man, my precious boy, look what you’ve done. Can’t you see that you only know black because you’ve seen white? You only know pain because it rides with delight.
Your head turns both ways, you have a neck, you know.
Let me show you that you’re loved.
There are seven perfect symbols of love and if you look where I place my needle you’ll see I’ve sewn them in place. That way you’ll always have them with you, no matter how alone you feel.
The seven symbols are a scarred palm, a figurine repaired by hands of a debtless stranger, the aurora borealis, a newborn child, the Stoic climbing out of himself, sunlight in the mouth of a cave, and the transmutation.
These things are my promise to you, that you’re loved, and when I’m done stitching your flesh and mending your bone you’ll be able to see where I've knit you back together.
They will be your scars, your magnificent scars, that prove you are loved enough to mend no matter how often you are broken.
I love you enough to do that, not because I know you, because I don’t, but by virtue of our shared humanity, because we were boiled in the same oil, flayed by the same whip.
I am gifting you golden thread so that you might wear your Kintsukuroi with pride. Know your majestic birth began when you were broken and that your coming of age is in your repair.
But I can’t fix all of you.
I can only pull together your pieces, offer the succor of stitches.
After my fingers are raw with mending I’ll need you to climb in and wear your history with the fullness of your being; understand that you are the aurora borealis of your own night sky,
an exquisitely natural phenomena of your own making.
Stop trying to fit in. This world is full of tight corners and edges and we, the expansive ones, were never meant to fit but to float, full and free.
Forgive yourself when you crouch in dark places; there’s no shame in needing comfort from the scorch of high noon. Who can judge you for sucking on cactus in a desert?
Behold the beauty of your own creation. Look at the marvelous warrior you are and remember, you must love the battle, not the win because without it, the victory is empty.
It is true that the greatest love we have for another can require sacrifice but allow yourself time to heal between the nailing of your palms; allow others to give that gift to you because...
...you are most worthy.
When you can look in the waters of your tears and see that you only experience pain because you are so full of love for justice and humanity then, and only then, will the transmutation be complete.
And it is my hope for you, young stranger, that you learn to love the ashes in your mouth
because they are proof that you burned bright enough to make them... Know that you are loved, tell yourself that every day. ©Maggie Lawson 2018