Bare

In a late night introspective mood, I stood in front of my mirror after the shower, smoothing the humidity off the silver glass, and running a hand through wet curls. It was with a sudden widening of eyes I realized  I was admiring my body…. for perhaps the first time ever.

The towel hung limp, forgotten.

There’s something unfathomable, intangible about this whole experience, of shifting into the person I should have been all along. I can’t explain how one day I seem to suddenly catch sight of myself and feel startled into a sense of feeling more “awake”. Suddenly notice the changes that have been creeping to the front, a little at a time, everyday. Such was my midnight mirror-gazing, leaning forward as though to convince my eyes; noticing muscles that have never grown until now, risen like pale hills and valleys on this changeable landscape. I notice veins that stand off from the muscles like rivers, coursing, as though heavy with water after the snow melting from mountaintops. I notice fresh skin, unfreckled, untouched by sun, stretched around my chest muscles and back and belly. A little weight shifted there, a little thinner here. And yet the crooked smile remains, and the quick green eyes I inherited from my mother. I may be a shapeshifter. I may have shed my old skin like a snake growing old, but there are clues of the person I’ve been all along, the person I was, and the person I will become. And the Truth is here, standing, staring at me from the mirror.

His beard is coming in and he wears it scraggly; a proud teenager with an old man’s eyes, his body somewhere inbetween the two. His mouth sometimes forgets how to smile but his ears never stop listening. He’s tired. His heart is heavy in his chest made of lead, feet made of clay, and with a stiffened white hand, he draws the towel over himself like a curtain closing. He lowers his eyes and no longer looks at me; with methodical habit-learned quickness, he shaves, brushes his teeth, and turns out the light.

In the morning, the man in the mirror wakes with a snoring silver cat wrapped over his stomach, the pair looking like a drunken after-party, his naked, muscled leg sticking out from under a patched blue quilt. His face sounds like a velcro fastener on the pillow as he turns his head, and he stops, eyes wide. That’s new. He turns his head again and again, making the scratching sound with the stubble of his own beard, grinning like someone doused with wine, given over to silliness.

The cat wakes grumbling, gold eyes glaring a moment before going back to sleep; she is used to his antics and forgives him.

In these moments, I am laid bare to myself. I spend so much time in my own head, sitting on a therapist’s couch, in a group therapy session, on a friend’s floor, helping a customer at work; so rarely am I truly myself - the boy I was at age 8 who wanted to be an inventor. The young man at age 13 who was reading Shakespeare in his garden to wild rabbits. The college student who listened to classical pieces and grinned with dirt on his face as he shaped clay into bowls and dishes, whirling in his hands on a mud-stained wheel. So rarely am I myself; so busy am I interacting with the world, turning myself into the listening ear strangers need, quickly honing in on what is expected of me in each and every social situation, that I never step out of these roles and say with truth: “Hello, I am Milo.”

And I want that to change. I want to share my Truth with you, if you’ll only listen, if you’ll only let me in, if only I can trust you with this piece that’s been broken so many times before. This Milo is still the 8 year old inventor and he is frightened of this world. Yet he still holds out his hands in greetings, though they tremble.

Hello, I am Milo, and you are my friend.

I am Milo and if you would like, I am going to read you my favorite poem.

I am Milo, and this is a new piece of art I’ve made.

I am Milo and today I have been on T for 10 months.

Hello, I am Milo, and in this rare moment, I don’t care what anyone thinks and I love myself.

Laid bare;

I am left with nothing but affirmations.

And this:

This second in time is a clear piece of glass. Hold it up to your eye, and feel silly and watch the world warble within it. Or let the warm sun come through it and watch the light spread into colors on your floor.

Let his moment split wide open for you.

The man in the mirror smiles at me and he has never done that before.

Tangled Stone Heart

The bed was hard, the hallways were long, and they lived in my memory like bats in an attic. My skin and clothes had been drenched in fear. I had screamed, once, twice. I had clung to the door weeping like a broken child.

But it was not so now. I shooed the bats away, lifting my face to the sun.

I stood free, and alone, under the biggest sky I knew, in brand new skin. Little clouds drifted past. Please don’t flow so fast. With grass surrounding my feet, I felt whole again. I remembered who I was and filled my lungs with clean air.

Under my arm, my notebook rested, cooling off from the three hours of therapy where I scribbled notes and drew flowers when I was angry. There was a rubber-band around the covers to deter prying fingers; those who saw my drawings wanted to see more, asked, pleaded, which left me in a hard place of flattered and resentful. I felt like I was made of bark and did not move. Pretended to not hear them. No, they couldn’t see the thorny garden in this notebook. Would not let them, because these drawings came from such a dark place. When I was ready to share, it would be careful, methodical, out of peace and gentleness. Which was perhaps backwards for an artist, who often made works from pain and despair. But not I. Not this time. It would be a breech birth.

Under my arm the notebook jostled against my heavy chest as I walked from the long and low brick building built in the 1950’s out under the shade of trees. The building made of hard beds and long hallways, of nurses and psychiatrists. The parking lot and road fell away as I strode away from it. I saw a little stone foot-path to my left veer away, looping around, and I ignored it, stepping off. I wanted grass and trees and sky.

I walked until my ribs hurt and my hands were shaking. I hadn’t taken into account the anxiety, weakening my body. Sitting now, carefully laying down the notebook. I breathed and my ribs hurt less. The trunk of a sycamore cradled my back.

My eyes focused on the wind and the branches and movement all around, ignoring the tug at my brain to daydream. Staying present was so exhausting. If I didn’t watch every thought come and go like little sparrows flitting away at a bird bath, I would dissociate and wander off from my body and sit in cold places where no one could find me. It was not safe to do so. I had learned that recently, and my notebook recorded the bloody discovery like a black box after the crash.

I kept my eyes busy, and there was so much to look at. Spring was finally hitting, and leaf buds were mint colored and covered in soft down. I watched a ladybug clean her face on a dandelion, antennae waving wildly, tongue unfurling.

Craning my neck, there was a gentle rolling hill and a wide flat area of cement. Wide flat cement but no parking lot. No basketball goal. I couldn’t quite make it out. Left over from an earlier site, a floor to a forgotten building? A relic? I climbed to my feet, my stiff legs protesting. Limped for the first ten steps before my stride evened out again. Curiosity willed me onward when all my body wanted was rest.

The hill proved more difficult than it looked, and at the top, I stood like a conqueror, the muscles in my thighs and calves fluttering with exhaustion, the wet grass sticking to my sneakers as I set my first steps on the mysterious sun-bleached concrete.

It was a labyrinth.

Rather, a painted maze on a poured stone slab, and here, I circled to the beginning where I purposefully laid down my books and set out, head held high, as though I knew the steps, knew the secrets of this place, knew the heart of it. Shoes moved with intent, through the faded blue lines; round and round I wove.

But my confidence faltered as I walked, eyes darting ahead to follow where a future decision might lead me to a dead end. I felt unsure of my legs and my path and where I was going. I questioned what I was doing and whether this was a waste of time, feeling the suck and pull of chores, bills to be paid, things to be cleaned. Because fast-paced, rocky adulthood did not have room for moments to breathe, to play. To recover.

I closed my eyes a second and opened them again, seeing my sneakers and labyrinth in a new light.

This, was a tool. This, a place of healing. Keeping the body moving, keeping the mind from dissociating, keep the eyes awake and aware. As continued onward, walking again, I discovered its purpose. It was not left in the woods, forgotten. No, it was a treasure, designed to be wrapped in a place of quiet and solace, walled in by leaves instead of roads. It was a pearl on its oyster bed, submerged in the sea.

And I was old. I felt older than this earth, this tree, this sky. I felt my body ache, felt my scattered heart beats, uneven; felt the medication in my blood working to make me young again, failing.

In the center in the maze, I stopped. Unable to take any more.

I froze.

Breathed.

Watched the mint green buds sway in the wind.

And realized with a sudden start I had solved it. The point was the make it to middle.  And there, lay a straight path back out.

I emerged humble, and a little younger than before.  I stood free, and alone, under the biggest sky in brand new skin. With my books in hand, I left the comfort and shade of the woods and walked bare headed under the sun, the light hot on my dark hair, my thoughts warm and clear as I drove home.