The Bones of Me

We have history, us humans.  We have our own personal story and the heritage of the people before us.  We have the bones of the past that we can spend moments honoring and clothing in our own skin.  We have the bones of ourselves to cover, protect, and move into life.

There is an old story from many cultures about The Bone Woman.  This woman lives in the forlorn places of our world, deserts, ocean islands, mountains, and inner city ruins.  She collects bones.  Look closely and you can see her.  Perhaps shuffling down a cracked city sidewalk, carrying a bag or pushing a shopping cart.  Watch her and you notice her every now and again bend over, and pick up an object, maybe something shiny, or even cracked.  She  carefully wipes it clean on her shirt, or coat, or skirt, and places it gently in her bag or cart.  You may be a little afraid of this woman, she seems like someone you should not know, someone who does not live the way you are comfortable with.  Perhaps she mutters to herself, or smiles at you with no teeth, or smells not  the way you would want someone to smell.  She does not care that you disdain her.  Her thoughts and plans are on the one job she has, collecting the bones of the world.

At the end of the day she goes to her home, maybe a desert cave, or a tree house.  And in her home she takes those items she has spent the day collecting, and places them with reverence on the shelves that line her home.  Sometimes, when she has enough of the right kind of items, the right amount of items, she sits on her floor, and gathering these correct pieces around her, she arranges them, fastening them together, a colorful stone here, where a heart would be,  a bird’s nest fit right where it should go, bones fit together to form a marvelous skeleton of a living creature.  Humming softly and quietly a tuneless yet melodious tune she watches this creation stand, usually on four paws, but at times on two feet.  She watches and hums as a soft energy forms over this skeleton, and it begins to move, muscles and ligaments begin to grow, holding it strong, and skin or fur shimmer over it all, and eyes blink, and ears twitch, until finally the creature is living and ready to have a life of its own.

Opening her door, or the thin rags covering the entrance to her cave, the Bone Woman beckons to her newly born child, and watches as it bounds outside running free and alive.  Running over rooftops, through desert brush, rocky outcrops, wet ocean floors.  A story reborn.

We are like that.  We rebuild our lives, regain our own stories, hopefully daily.  Our lives are a process of  fulfillment and growth.

Blessings on your stories my friends!

5 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. 225 Water Street
    Jul 17, 2011 @ 22:33:01

    As I read this … being a visual person … my first thought jumped to the gruesome scene in the movie Alien but then I gathered myself and thought that the negativity of the day must be getting to me, so I allowed myself to go somewhere much more pleasant.

    You know I love the idea of … “When life smashes things to bits … you can glue it back together to make something beautiful with the pieces.”

    Time to brush my teeth and grab a glass for wine.


  2. Trackback: The Bones of Me (via Tilly Evan Jones) « 225 Water Street
  3. Sarah
    Jul 17, 2011 @ 23:43:18

    So lovely!!


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