Mikva

I stood silently, the hot water pouring down my face.  Eyes closed.  It was quiet and beautiful.  Utterly still.

All of the sudden, I found that I had placed my left hand across my neck and then my right hand above my left, feeling the length and presence of the scar which is now there.  It was something about the gesture and the height and girth of the scar.

First water and then tears.  So many tears.  And still no sound.

So much silence.

There has been so much silence and so many scars and nothing has touched how the heart inside this body beats or loves except for one thing.

It’s not screaming.  Not blaming.  It is awake and reconfiguring from its limps and places of constriction.

But this gesture: like a gesture of strangulation, was a tender gesture.  A gesture of exquisite care.  

I covered my throat and my heart ached like it has never ached before.  Why, you ask?

Because I still love.

Because I am opening to the very places which have been hurt the most and I am walking towards that pain, slowly taking its hand and asking for its forgiveness.  

It is the only thing I know to do.

10.23.12

Jill Bacharach