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.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBdU0d6ERq9zmz72MjBcSOMil99JJzeFC28jQDcW0fMherambzYxHU3RTerfmpe1Ad-DJb7N3Xb5Pk3bChSM4nCLpeCOXU8up68b_h9vKfF8IPqoJowGp_ELVvgxWOc-37HNi-nQb5rw/s400/fullsizeoutput_4cc.jpeg)
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.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebo7Eb58RMDD9iQZUaMem0mABPJS1aAXPfplUZ4c9Qya4D1J_ZuVYLLtSG5RASfjWLeIkIYwSxhbkKqiVM1z8cGiq6IvuGmZfJq4o2pm8hkAaxNsyQHqEpepaoB8kdKNV27ewTGwoXwY/s400/20170603_123130.jpg)
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.