“Akhilanda derives her power from being broken: in flux, pulling herself apart, living in different, constant selves at the same time, from never becoming a whole that has limitations.” Julie Peters
I am shattered. I work to gather each fragment, soaked in the blood of birth and betrayal, and lay them with great care on the hearth of my heart, to be tended with the warmth of compassion and the heat of self awareness.
My heart is as much scar as fresh tissue. Each day I pick up a remnant of who I was to study the edges where I am broken, to discern the shape of the wound and the medicine it needs to heal. I learn the language of bloodlines and grieflines to understand the unfolding of this story over the generations of my family, a lineage of broken mothers.
In the sanctuary of my home and emotionally safe relationships I do the healing work of unravelling my pain, discovering my inherent worthiness, and transforming my stories of breaking into stories of repair and restoration. I have a medicine bag filled with the things that help me sew myself back together – a good marriage, heartsisters, flowers, and tools for art making.
In a culture that thrives on the message that we need to be fixed in a million ways because they cannot grow profit without finding new ways to make us feel needy desire and less than for our imperfections, I claim my brokenness. Wholeness is not perfection, it is honoring all of myself, all of the pieces and the ways I turn myself into a radiant quilt or technicolor dreamcoat. My power comes from my many pieces and how they are sewn back together and move together after emotional dismemberment. While I will always seek growth and new possibilities, I am done seeking to “better” myself. I do not need to be better. I need to listen to the song of my tattered soul and where it guides me.
I am she who is never not broken. I am she who is always facing the unfathomable and birthing new possibilities.
Image by Laura Keenados @badcatpomegranate on Instagram