Altars in the Attic

 I have just confessed to a beloved friend, who lovingly stood witness, as I spoke of the fact of the aching bones that are stored in my attic in need of healing and final rest.

These are boxes of baggage and upset. Some not mine to unpack, but unpacked they must be. Eventually.

They are filled with betrayal, short comings, half truths and neglect. They are filled with the rest of the story, unspoken or heard. Never given the chance to be uttered in Soul soothing, Life giving Word.

They are made of the bones of my ancestors, leading up to and into myself. All our faults and our flaws and our failings. All the deep DNA of genetic entraining. The ways we concealed and withheld out of fear it could never be healed.

But there’s sunlight that enters the Attic, when I hold each small box in my hands. When I look and do not look away, and bless every event that has led to this day. When I integrate all that I’m made of and cast not one pebble away, then the stones become pathways to Altars, where I can bow down every day.

Then my Attic becomes Sanctuary. And my breath blows the dust off debris that has cluttered my concept of fabric, that now forms the fabric of me. And these Altars I form deep inside me, seek to set all my ancestors free. In great honor to be at the service of restoring the Souls Purity.

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