Polygraph

Secrets they say, produce stress hormones.

Trying to undo the damage of stress,

I pick apart my tangled web,

release the pearls of irritation,

count the items buried deep.

One, the early age I became a mom

Two, the ways I failed my children

Three, a forgery

Four, the coyote of poverty

Five, near death in real estate experience

Six, people I wish I’d never met

Seven, fears ripped from a sleeveless dress

They say a list longer than seven won’t be remembered. I don’t want my list to be remembered, but I don’t want to hold underground anymore what was meant to make it’s way to the light, as tender seedlings in the garden of myself.

A dance isn’t written in stone.

Is it a lost art, a forgotten art, or a secret art?

What if I strictly avoided lies?

Uncovering truths, the fountain of memory seems everlasting. Counting tears of trauma makes me laugh, they are like an explosion of peony petals fallen to the ground as those fragile flowers do.

I am like that. No excuses for falling apart, but pure generosity. It’s all an experiment. I count the petals with the words: another and another. I train my tongue to rest and hum soft vibrations to soothe my throat. I’m an abstract healer.

So let’s do an experiment, let the petals of experience fall and see the beauty all around us. There’s no doubt that pink is pretty. Has anyone made fun of your colors? Reclaim the unseen beauty hidden in shame. I think, if nothing else , it’s awesome: all that’s happened and that the ultimate good is still as ever with us.

Let’s admire some lies before shedding them:

Lies about age, and experience

Lies about assets and liabilities

Lies about smiling

And the big stuff bag of lies, denial.

I just want to thank you, big lies, and little lies too, for protecting me and making me look good, also for helping me feel good about myself. And this is how I let you go, with a kindly pat an the back and a laugh about our times together. But I let you go.

The truth seems to take up a lot of space. But I feel I have a lot more space now. And I deserve space. I take up space. I am real. I am true. I’m not to be swept under the rug.

I pray for healing, for blessings, for love, and survival. I pray because I’ve always believed, since I was a child, that there is a God and big concepts like Eternity are real and worthy of our continuous attention.

And the knowledge that I’m one small, but important part, of something too big to understand keeps me in conversation with The All.

Intention. Motivation. Pride. Virtue. Sin. It’s so heady the only solution is to create along with the Creator.

Karma, evolution, creation story, Noah’s ark, it’s a bunch of different beliefs and histories. A long time, if spirits are good, could be spent talking about what we can’t know and what we do.

What would the polygraph register on questions of faith? Is there anxiety in not committing to believe something that can’t be proven?

One thing is clear to me: humans weren’t made to be on their own without divine love and orientation.

I’m doing a middle age molt, shedding all my old stories, so I can be gifted new feathers and fly like an eagle. I’m Marie Condo-ing my autobiography and getting rich counting my blessings. These are my dying days, unto ego.