There she sits at the base of your spine, sometimes a thick coil waiting to snake her way up your back towards your wings, other times so tightly wound, she forms a nest, pulled down from her upward spiral by the worries you've absorbed throughout your day--so many of them not your own. Yet it would seem you are asked to carry them, as if you are surrounded by cuckoos wanting to bury their eggs in your light, among your carefully cultivated dreams so that you might take them as your own and they, they will be free of the burden of those unhatched futures.
She grows too heavy to reach your wings, too full for anything but to hold those eggs tighter lest they spill from their makeshift home; your back, too, feels the weight of this, as if these eggs are stones rather than hauntings of another or what-might-bes. But your light is stronger than those leaded eggs, your sleeping serpent ready to shed her skin, cast off these stories that don't belong to her. Slowly, she begins to twist and contract, to wriggle and writhe until each egg, each burden falls out of this sinuous basket at the base of your spine. Until you are left with only your light-as-air hatchlings--all yours--made of hope and long hours on the mat.
She remembers what she is, not a cuckoo's nest but a spiral of energy, always evolving, helping you to shed the debris of the day, cast off all those memories from other or past selves until you are left with a love song, a dance between your spine and your breath, that upward moving coil kissing each vertebra as she reaches for the light. It is not your job to hold other people's pain, she says, nor their stories--only your own joy.
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