I have one of those porous hearts: the one where anything and everything can soak in and fit in—there’s room.
I try to create boundaries and shields.
I have rituals to de-charge after my sessions:
I shake out my hands and unzip my bubble, but it still gets in.
I live to touch people—literally and figuratively.
I can feel them–
The terror hiding in her shoulder, leftover from the days she had no choice but to collapse inward; they were too big to fight off.
The fear radiating from his neck, petrified to turn and look away, toward the truth–a threat to his loyal exterior.
Her grief, leaking from her ribs through her spine, into my hands.
I take it as if it were my own pain.
Give it to me.
I can handle it, for a while.
I carry it until it gets too heavy; I wring it out and watch it splash all over the air and earth.
“Take it back!” I panic, and then I sob.
Last night, I could hardly make it over the threshold of the studio before I spilled it all. I wailed; I rolled around like a toddler.
I’m sorry, gushing from my lips.
I’m sorry for all of it: for him, for her, for her, for the pain.
I felt lonely and crowded in the same breath.
Lost in the collision of joy and sorrow.
They always congregate at the end of the day.
I don’t remember why, how or when I stopped crying, I just did.
I was done, letting it go, so I tied my shoes and left all of it for her to clean up.
I looked up, into the mirror.
My heart’s reflection in the sky—pink, forgiving, calm, darkness framing the horizon, prepared for tomorrow, to do it all over again. ~Rebecca