She went on her walk this morning. She’s Me. I’m Her. Her name is Rachel. Not Rachel Lynn, not Rachel Curry. Not Rachel Lyon, not Rachel Hart.

Just Rachel. “Rachel.” There she is! Found alive. With an i-phone instead of a camera. Oh, well. “I don’t care.” “Look at all of it...”

Her eye balls sparkle a little. The white part; it’s white again.

Monterey Figs. Dinosaurian Roots laying in the dirt. Dinosaurs sun bathing. Branches grow and gravity pulls them back into the ground. “These fig trees are genius,” she thinks. Self-affirming. Self-enhancing. Self-soothing and self-loving.

She is a fig tree in the making. A California dinosaur in a young woman’s skin. A adult woman’s body. Skin baking and body bathing under the heat. Self-made love.

Arizona willows weep themselves into small, crusty, yellowish trees. They are sad and dry, but don’t mind being so. The weeping willows of California weep less... because their soil is rich with the nutrients of a grounded, stable earth. Even in the Los Angeles earthquakes, the Great Mother always gives them what they need. The desert sun hasn’t cracked their trunks. Because they’re protected.

She is a California Willow, now. From Arizona. She feeds on her own breastmilk. Because she can. Because that’s how nature designed it.

”Biology is genius,” she thinks. It repairs itself in the skull of human Arizona Willows looking for California soil.

I am Her, and She is me. My reconstruction is a secret, but it’s beautiful. It’s awe strikingly peculiar. It’s healing to watch, inspiring to see. It is pure hope.

Locked away inside the deepest parts of her being. Untouchable.

White and purple and spotted blue steel. That’s how beautiful it is. The green is everywhere. Growth is like that.

So write me letters if you wasn’t. Emails. But I’ll respond with short, dismissive phrases...if at all.

The wet brick, not pavement. I live on the musty smell of a wet brick patio. Delicious. I lay it on...I love the hardness. Water always makes the red stand out. Nourishment.

She logs her thoughts in her camera phone memo pad. She collects pieces of wisdom from Heaven. She cherishes them; never wants to forget.

“Energetically speaking, Ian has become one of my greatest friends. Like with Caleb, I believe this happened so we could witness the healing of each others’ trauma instead of using eachother to repeat it. So we can watch the energy shift, change, transmute, and shed light on what used to be shadowed. Ian and I use language to heal ourselves. We speak the unspeakable, we become less afraid. It’s an integrative relationship. It has great purpose. It’s kind. Very kind.”

Today I put lotion all over my body. For the first time in many months. I have white sun spots on my arms. I never noticed. I don’t mind. I’m always dirty, but I don’t mind. I’m not really dirty anymore. It’s just dust on my pants.

I didn’t just apply vanilla scented cream to my calves and my ankles, or my wrists and my elbows. As I usually would. Minimalist. Need nothing. My Arizona self. Looking young but feeling old.

Today I put lotion all over my body. I massaged it into my thighs and my hips. I covered every inch of my flesh with Value, Dignity, and Worth. The first time in months? No, the first time in years.

Since before I was born. Since the womb.

I used thick, oily lubrication. Bath and Body Works worked it’s way in. My shoulders. My triceps. My neck. The blades of my back. I put it everywhere, I spread it everywhere. The timeless Dignity, Value, and Worth I discovered yesterday. In the color purple. When I made the bird.

Today I’m purple.

I am the color purple. I wear it.

Because it’s safe now.

Tears of gratitude and grief for what never was before. Real tears. But mostly gratitude.

I’m beaming.