on the eve of her birthday the mystic holds a picnic by the creek. friends and followers lounge on blankets in a circle round the food. the air is warm for this time of year and afternoon, but gentle under overcast skies promising a storm. I arrive a little late for liking with guacamole and a mask. having spent the morning in my head it's good to try to be outside.
tomorrow's birthday girl dictates a ritual for her congregation, willing us to scribe our secrets onto paper: something to let go of, something to hold onto, something to bring to life. I sit on the trunk of a fallen tree and write what sense I can draw from the well:
hiding what and how I feel (for fear)
the ears / hearts that listen / ask me to believe that I am not too much
the belief that I have no reason to be scared.
being a fire sign, the mystic instructs me to burn my paper. I exchange my secrets with a stranger. we share a lighter, holding on until our words are only flames. the earth signs bury theirs in the ground.
the storm never comes. I wash dishes in the sink and tell myself that nothing's wrong. I wash my face and brush my teeth and listen to your favourite song.
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