ESSENCE
My therapist says the new name
and the haircut
are diversions from the real issue,
so I ask,
what is the real issue
and she says,
You—the essence of you.I go home having no idea
what she means,
but later I consider
my Soul.I've seen it in my dreams.
It's ageless, genderless,
and wrapped in a flowing white garment.
It hovers over the sea while I sit
beneath a palm tree on a pristine beach.
Its face is hidden,
but kindness and wisdom emanate
from it and my belly is satisfied in its presence,
as if I've eaten a plate of Mom's homemade pasta.My Soul hugs me, though it has no arms.
It nurses me, though it has no nipple.
It communicates without words or eyes,
and speaks to my heart.
They are best friends.
I envision them snapping their bubble gum
and swapping character cards:
Courage, Love, Faith.Perhaps my therapist is suggesting
I spend more time in communion
with this part of myself,
listening and allowing
that which is inside-and not outside-
to guide me.She knows my essence doesn't care
what I look like,
whether my hair is short or long,
whether I am ten pounds overweight
or ten pounds too thin.
It doesn't care what I call myself
or what I do, whether I dance or write;
it's not concerned with doing,
but with being.The thought that I'm not good enough
would be incomprehensible
to my essence,
which is perfect--
the same love and light
that radiates from everybody else.
My essence is connected to all living things.It is unafraid, unapologetic,
a tidal wave of permission
alive forever.My essence is a child, a whore, a crone,
a priest, a parrot, and a lover.
It can't be pinned down like a butterfly
or dissected like a frog.My essence is more knowledgeable
than my therapist,
and though I am grateful for them both,
it is my essence that knows
and helps me remember
who I am.
From SECRETS OF MY SEX.