I Never Knew

       I once knew a woman whose hair grew long and free.  I would visit with her from time to time while she stared off into the distance, far past me.  Stories of was and when tumbled from her lips, but her words brought tears to my eyes because I never realized what I never knew.  I had never known that her small frame had once been beaten by fists of disgrace, her fair skin blemished with the scars of hate.  I loved to stare into the glistening pool of her eyes, never knowing that their depths had been dug by the fingers of despair.  I felt that she had accomplished much through her bravery and creativity, but I never knew that each day was a struggle of life and death, no's and maybe's.  A crushing weight sat upon her chest, but to me it looked as though she was laying upon the ground on purpose.  Her doll-like feet seemed to float above the blades of grass as she walked, but underneath were striped scars from the glass and the rocks.  Her breasts were humble, not hidden but not boasted, while underneath were the secreted burns of the branding iron.  I thought her perceptive, all knowing it seemed.  But the truth is that she was hyperaware, needing to always know her way to safety if danger began to scream.  Her body appeared to move seamlessly with the wind as she danced around the nights fire; I never knew that she was really dodging the hot sparks of desire.  The stars seemed to shine down upon the halo of her simple brow, the flowers and trees bending while she passed with an extravagant bow.  She told me of far away places and caverns and caves, beaches where century old soldiers unearthed graves.  She had witnessed the birth of the moon in all of its wondrous glory, and had sat in awe as the suns flames rose to chase the infant underground.  I watched as her fingers wove colorful lives together, magic and stars exploding instantly without sound.  In her passion and fury her words blew smoke and her eyes shone blue as day, red as night, and finally green as her breath began to slow.  Her scarred chest heaved up and down in time with the feathers that round her head wound.  When her tongue spoke no more, the stories were at an end, I looked up to beseech her to tell me more, "one more!" I implore.  I felt desperate, not knowing where we would go from here without her words to carry me through another afternoon of laughter and tears.  She held one palm away, allowing its  emptiness to blow away on the breeze of the past.  The other she put to her lips and whispered quietly into, her eyes closed in peace.  The flowers dancing under my toes were the only sound as I suddenly knew that I would have to go on.  I could still visit my muse occasionally, but I felt within myself the truth that was always there.  That I am her, and she is me.  I'm beautiful and lovely just as I thought of her, her journey was a path that I also traveled.  I can wear her flowered crown, pricking my own fingers and growing my own star-laced gown.  My own eyes shine with the galaxy and planets that align, my own womb bearing the pain of all who could have belonged.  I too am strong; I also have a tale to tell, and the words that flow from my fingers have the power to grow like cancer or shine like moonbeams.  I too can turn my scars into ribbons of grace and wear past injustices as a smile upon my face.  I also harbor magic in the palms of my heart and, if I so choose, can toss my glittered sorrow to spot the sky as stars in the night.

Moon Goddess painting by Karen Ferrand Carroll