I am told
that I move through the world with grace,
that I am temperate and generous,
that I must possess some secret of forgiveness.
It is a lie.
I possess no secret,
No magic elixir that removes pain,
No balm to rub on the shattered soul,
No salve to soothe the casual cut
that it bleeds
for a decade.
I have no mantra
or super secret white-lady yoga position
or magic water
that makes everything okay,
I have a well.
A well of rage so deep and so wide that I am terrified,
A calm still water resting,
All of the hurts and cuts and injuries are there
-it is a holy well of holy rage-
And here I am
my bucket descending
Maybe I do have a secret after all.
Maybe now you do, too.