I’ve known thousands of ways to heal.
Through painted fingernails and facial scrubs, smiles in the mirror, long hugs and hot tears, karaoke and dance, scary risks and laughing hard and loud.
Through letting the true me come out, in receiving her right where she is, in moments so utterly unlovable.
I’ve known healing in bird song and sun rise and tumbling waves and trickling streams, in pictures of God and verses breathing life into dry bones.
I’ve known healing through sisterhood and floating the Deschutes, through worship, through stories, through bubblebaths and comfort food, through dog tongue kisses and back rubs by my children.
I’ve known healing in giving what I’ve got (and sometimes more), in rejecting old stuff I don’t need to carry anymore — lies and curses and insecurity and scarcity and doubt. I’ve known healing in the arms and eyes of those who remind me, stop carrying that garbage.
I’ve known healing through walking with others as they heal. Brave and tremulous, bit by terrifying bit. Reaching for life. Putting down the weapons of death and saying, Oh God, come.
It’s been a long time, but man, that felt good. Wild and loose and unpredictable, a timed five minute free-write on the word prompt: HEAL.