Dear one, you are the earth. You are the rain, cloud and sky. You are the whole cosmos. It is no one’s right to tell you who you are. You are brilliant and ever-changing. You never were and will never be the labels or diagnosis given to you. Those are too limited and too stagnant to ever define even a sliver of your radiant form and formless resonance. So, if ever the skin you wear feels too tight, shed it. Let the world see you as you are—raw, wild, and beautiful.
Nourish the pelt that is true to you. If there is an old skin you slithered through because others told you to, go find it. It is and will forever be yours. Bless your skin with sun or the soft rays of moon. Let your hands wash away what clings to your pelt or nettles your fur. Feel yourself being embraced.
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There have been times in my life where my skin barely held to flesh (which was mostly bones). Before that, I often felt alien to the skin I was in, like I was covering up the inner contents of myself so that I could be in the world and be with others. For a long time, I abandoned my skin and questioned my home. I didn’t know if I wanted to be in the world nor if I wanted to take the world in. I felt little boundary between myself and my surroundings.
Yet, after years of illness—and the running and hiding and falling, which were necessary at that time—the skin that remained was all mine. I had retrieved wisdom and knowledge through my time spent in darkness with the Earth and the quiet place inside myself. Grief and endings, demanded I let go of the skin grown not to shelter, but to cover the tender truths underneath. Solitude urged me to remember my true home and time in loving-community helped me realize my rightful place in the skin I wear.
Nevertheless, after recovering my skin, there were months I could only exist in the world if I had both arms wrapped tightly around myself in a hug. Each day, I would, softly and slowly, oil my skin to bear the world and grow stronger. Yet, when a lawnmower revved up down the block, I’d quickly flee to the basement to curl up in a ball. I brought my weighted blanket with me whenever I travelled. After work, I would lie face down on the floor, often for half an hour, to settle my nerves (which have an important connection to the skin). I also remember wearing a heavy set of Carhartt overalls as a way of bracing the world when I felt so extremely sensitive to it.
Indeed, there have been times when I’ve needed, more than anything, to be held. And, I still feel that what we try to say in words might be better said through loving-touch. I see that when I touch or hold a friend who is in panic, her body responds. Words don’t always penetrate in the same way. We are kin who remember the touch of kin. We are animals that recall the contoured body of the earth.
I still, to this day, oil my skin and use heat to invite my skin to soften, open and release. There are still emotions I hold in the connective tissue beneath my skin. Sometimes, old anger speaks in hives or rashes. Perhaps, it is ready to be let go. I honor and care for the home I live in. I listen to what I feel at this boundary of Self and world. I am grateful for the ways in which I’ve learned to hold and protect myself. Through self-touch, I receive the love that flows out my heart and into my fingers. I am loved by a source far beyond me and yet somehow within me. I meet the sun with a ready body; I praise the moon for her cooling light. My body wants to feel, to touch, to be endlessly loved and welcomed home.
From Darkness, I Rise 