there are three different kinds of masses in my belly. it is wise now for me to accept the knife, so i have accepted the knife. i surrender.
i prepare, i prepare. i cleanse, i sit, i breathe, i weep. my heart feels pretty clear about all this, and my mind, and for months now i have been diligently attending to the body. it shines, it glows. i am ready.
there is only one question that i had yet to solve for myself: how can i love the knife? how can i *love* the knife? not simply surrender to it. i feel surrendered to it. how can i love it? embrace it? invite it into me to heal as well as curing me?
last night my beloved kate truka wrote to me, and sent a poem as she often does with her words, and it was this. rumi, oh, rumi:
The soul of this community is coming
toward us, the sun on his forehead,
wine jar in right hand, stride by
stride. Don't ruin this chance with
politeness and easy promises. The
help we called for is here, the
invitation to join with great souls.
Any place we gather becomes a ceremony
on the approach to the Kaaba. Meaning:
pass quickly through your being into
absence. The self of your name and fame
secures you with a new knot every moment.
Personal identity is a sheath. The
creator of that, a sword. The blade
slides in and unites: worn covering
over bright steel, love purifying love.
and this, i think, is what i needed. i will just let the knife be love. and welcome it. and remind myself again and again that this body is not me, though it is.
i am just a pattern, the knife is just a pattern.