The gravel on my dusty road had been strewn with
rose petals to guide me to the cabin where a healing gathering for women was in
progress. In a little while, I was lying on a massage table from where I could hear the
laughter of mothers and their daughters muffled through the curtains hanging in
the doorway to the kitchen. As a reiki
therapist circled the table, she asked me what I wanted from her session. I was hoping to write in the evening, so I asked
for balance. I closed my eyes. I could not see her
hands, but I felt them splayed like a hinge with my sternum the pin. I have a fondness for hinges.
Brass hinges of any sort. Rusted iron ones and butterfly
hinges. As I laid on the table, I
remembered the butterfly recuperating in my garden from a run-in with my
car. Instead of leaving it on the hot
road, I brought it home and tucked it among the flowers in a garden barrel. I hoped it would recover, but I noticed that
one side of its hinged body drooped slightly.
I was not optimistic. The swallowtail
spread its wings in the sun and unsuccessfully attempted flight. When a hard rain came in the night, I tucked it
under a canopy of large marigolds. The
pale swallowtail folded its wings in an awkward off-centered way and now has
remained there, quiet and still. Unhinged and off balance.
The reiki therapist's hands moved silently. Everyone brought something to contribute to
the afternoon event. Her gift was the
healing of hands. I had puzzled over what
to bring. Rhubarb cake or fudge pie?
And then I remembered much of my writing is about healing, so instead of desserts, I brought a
few pieces to read. I have been slow to think of my work as a
writer as having validity. Only the week before, I had finally ordered myself business cards. One of my
writing classmates said, "What kind of business are you going to advertise?"
"Writer," I responded with a wry laugh.
I designed the cards double-sided, as if hinged
on the paper’s sharp edge. If the two sides of the business card were splayed
open, one hinged side would hold the painted image of me - my gray hair blowing in the wind - and
the other side would proclaim I was a Writer. The English language allows one to paint or to write, but culture is parsimonious
in granting the award of nouns – artist or writer. I have been patient. Occasionally, my writing
critics would refer to me as a writer, but it was only after completing my
first manuscript was the noun of writer comfortable to me. A metal pin holds the two sides of a
hinge together. The completion of my manuscript was my pin to hinge me to the name, Writer.
On my shed window each hinge has two kinds
of screws – flat head and Phillips. This proved to me the window had changed locations. My moving to the cabin has brought the
writing side of me to a new place.
When I asked for balance from the soft-spoken reiki therapist, I asked
for my body to be ready to slip into a chair by the
fire with the river breeze blowing through my hair and the smell of pines and wood
smoke drifting across my nostrils. Quid
pro quo. If I feel balanced, I write. If I write, I feel balanced.
My reading went well. I came away from the gathering refreshed. A thank you to the women who brought their generous gifts of feminine spirit. Arriving home, I checked on the butterfly and took a last photo of a hinged purple petal with raindrops poised and balanced.