Modern-day confessions don't take place in ornate vestibules with screened anonymity. They are scheduled over e-mail and you meet face to face over a box of tissues and an iced bottle of water. I was allocated an hour since it had been so long since my last confession. I hardly remembered the ritual that I was supposed to engage in, but I choose the wisened stateman of a priest and he guided me through the formalities.
A lot has happened to me in this span of secular life. Growth, pain, loss, love, joy, heartbreak, motherhood, truth, work, friendship, hatred, art, and mostly perseverance.
In the darkest foxhole when it seemed perfectly rational to want to die, I didn't. Instead, a warmth found me and mended my wounds with bandages of hope. In that moment of very alone and unwanted, I was seen so clearly by the profound mystery of the unknown. I felt held so wholly that I imagined this was how Thumbelina must feel in the loving hands of her protectors. Grief was to follow I was promised and it would get incredibly sad. Those few hours in the aftermath of all of this destruction, I knew that it was going to be okay. I understood why such a path unraveled and the lessons I had to teach, and what I should learn.
It seems impossible to describe and I suppose such moments are meant for understanding that is greater than words. In the face, of such direct evidence, it is hard for me to discount, that which feels like saving. This is not the first time, either, where the world stopped spinning and I was held in timeless space.
My penance, which I was dreading, for I know what these last years had been like. Worldly experimentation and many nights. He said that I was to consider all that I was grateful for and let that gratitude grow within me. I imagine a fertile garden, verdant violets, raging reds, greens that shock the emeralds and blues that make the sky envy such a shade. I, the solo cultivator, planting seeds with great abandon, for loss does not mean an ending, just a chance for redemption.