The Altered Altar

RMPaltarCan’t talk now.  I’m in church – and today it is a yoga studio-  vacillating between confessing all my wants and seeking absolution from myself for taking the easy route.

I am my own judge, at least in my head, until i open my eyes and the mirror reveals my physical form as a woman, someone transformed by rites of a sacrament into someone I don’t recognize anymore. Now, seeking new holy places, creating labyrinths of meaningful encounters,  lessons for my own sanity, divine interventions of the carnal kind, I embrace my wholeness.

Kneeling here in child’s pose assuages my conscience, diverts attention away from the mind-numbing conformity of this decade.

Today, praying to the nature god is as close as i can come to a true church. I find this one built on a cold but slowly warming rock, set solid on the side of a mountain, with a view facing the slowly rising sun.

Here and there, I sit, and I am present.

See, a glorious coffee in my hand, my bible the words of Muir, and on the sacrificial altar: my smallness, magnified by nature, and my words requiring no band of angels to shout above the simple quiet of the groves.

In this silence, my truth is honored.

Know me. Accept me.

I have.

The characters and connections of my choices, my life story, come to me on the mountainside, created and constructed in the image of my own history and my ego,  feeding my mind,  authoring champions in the lessons and defining moments.

I assign my heroes, my mentors, my guides. These are the relationships I have birthed and nurtured over the years,  the patient readers of my scenes, who join me in defining what we scrape off the page and I release within each lover’s bed until he is spent.

Today, my mind’s library joins me in this simple place, this studio, this church of mine.  The rows of mats, these familiar strangers, rising, falling, wanting, giving, never touching yet communing, and gratefully i lie down, and rest, and release, and maybe lie a little longer to myself.

His face, just another face, someone who needs her more than she needs him.  Her battle scars hold her accountable and where no scar exists, she will find a way to cut there, next.  She preys.  She craves this thinking business; this place of honesty without a pew.  

#for Reticent Mental Property

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