Who is to say the Torah never wrote me? To witness scripture some 3000 years later. I incarnate as someone insignificant and vain, who lost her own language.
The tongue spoken in the deserts of the East. The prose... and poetry of all deceased. They run through. my cellularly memory. My genetic structure encoded with the whispers of antiquity.. yet I remember through sense.. and the images of yesterday are but fragments, disorganized and intangible for me to lament today.
I remember you. You walked unhinged, whispering scripture. They called you Majnun, a madman - the weeping willow tree.
It was another time, another life. From affluence you were born but gave it all away. This world never meant anything to you anyway.
Sodom was a city where desire became debauch. Opium and human trafficking... anything that could be bought with fist and force was brought to Sodom to be devoured.
I was a child of 10 - from a nomadic family who meant nothing to the neighboring river clans.
I was a mute, and lost my family to famine and murder. I did not think I could love again, but at 16, I did.
It was love that knew passion, as my compass for knowing such things had been distorted from long ago. I knew sex, but I did not know intimacy.
He taught me about vulnerability.
I miss the embrace of that kind of sex. Where bodies fold into each other, lost within a reverie of timeless space. That life ended in piety. I served the temple until my death. So many lifetimes it seems, incarnated as either a slave, a whore or nun... but in this one, I am a mother. Among the remnants of my other work... I am a mother. And for the rest of my life now I see my heart running around outside of my chest. The days are filled with prayer, knowing now only after birth, how little you can control events.
One relies on grace to get through the day. The same grace that keeps your child alive and breathing. That allows the release of trauma to make way for compassion.
I am to learn what forgiveness looks like. The Divine Mother, her love knows no bounds.