I've been feeling it rising like a tide. A rot in my body releasing poisonous gases. Burning my face like a permanent blush. Shame. Hate. Disgust. Rashes on my hands, arms, ankles, throat.
Finally this morning I dared to look at it. Lying in bed I scanned my body. A rotten pomegranate where my womb should be. Surrounded by protective thorns, worm-ridden. Black ink dripping like blood. I reeled in shock and fell back. My hand grasping onto saffron robes, her sandals. I prostrated and begged. Hot tears.
She took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes. Total calm. I knew she was an experienced mid-wife and would help me birth this fruit of collective pain. She swept debris aside, lay a cloth and wordlessly motioned for me to lie on it. Taking a blade of light from the pouch at her waist, she sliced through the thorns surrounding the fruit, performing an etheric episiotomy.
There was a sudden quickening as my womb began to pulse. She placed my hands on my belly and showed me how to assist by massaging in circular, flowing movements. Like a camera trick the fruit began to travel back through the death and growth cycles all the way to the bud stage as my inside cramped in waves.
I absorbed all the goodness from the fruit back into the cells of my womb which had returned to it's pink, fertile self. Everything that no longer belonged, all the rot, worms and ink had alchemically combined to form over a dozen black tear-shaped crystals.
She swaddled the crystals into a neat packet of red silk and pressed them to my heart, my lips, my third eye. She turned and disappeared in a flurry of saffron. I knew they would be buried deep in the earth with solemnity.
I know I have grieving and healing to do.