Mikaela Osten

She is the teller of stories, the record keeper of my life, of our human history.

I am healing. I am learning how to get rid of the things that don’t serve me. While I appreciate these histories, I no longer believe that certain material items will bring me happiness.

There is an equilibrium that is warranted—sometimes I get eaten by the waves and sometimes I dig in for a deep bite myself.

Each step is a breath. A chance to notice the flowers and their colors, their delicacy and also their courage.

Casted shadows from the cliffs behind, the tides rolling in with a melodic whisper, I allow the warmth to fill me and the breezes to whisk away anything left between my feathers.

Woman is the mother, the daughter, the lover.

Now is my time to let it all go.

Starting again, moving each muscle from a long sleep, I extend each limb in every direction, filling the room as much as I can with the opening of light, of the body, outside mixed with the internal airs. 

I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to say what needed to be said earlier. I felt the ice breaking under your feet. The plunge will be shocking, but it’s also necessary for both of us.