Wednesday, January 30, 2013

You Must Burn to Emerge


The following is an email I sent to my dad a few days after having my broken hip replaced with a surgical implant. Yes, I am, indeed, bionic now. Watch out, world! 

Dear Kevo, 

I felt compelled to share this with you...

The weeks leading up to my hip replacement surgery had me mentally tormented by the idea of having an integral part of me ripped from my body forever- and it really, really fucked with my head. It made me feel cheated, angry and, above all, profoundly confused as to why, after only twenty-five years, an essential component of my physical being was not only letting me down but was abandoning me as well. Subsequently, a tumorous image of my damaged and traitorous hip, surrounded by a swelling dark bitterness, rooted itself in my mind. It infected my every conscious thought and poisoned my dreams at night. But a few days before I went to the hospital some playa dust found its way into my lungs and suddenly my head was lost in a cyclonic storm of brilliant gray light. When the dust finally settled the malignant image was gone and in its place stood an impossibly perfect wooden structure put into sharp relief by the sapphire sky behind it. The building's intricately carved walls allowed so much light to pass into my being that there was no longer any room for the darkness. Finally freed, I was able to think back to our discussion about the underpinnings of the Temple Burn and I realized that my hip was my Temple of Juno...and that I needed to burn to emerge. I realized that the length time spent with something (whether it's one life-changing week or a quarter of a century) is beside the point, that beautiful things can be brought into existence simply for the sake of beauty and that part of that beauty is being able to let it go when the time comes to do so. It was this realization paired with an unshakable mental image of the Temple of Juno, illuminated by its own intrinsic light as well as the cleansing white flames of the Burn that gave me the courage to release part of myself to the Universe. 

You gave me that. Thank you, Dad. 

I love you. 

Love Always, 

Madeline