The Portal of Innocence

innocence in gold © 2015 heather rhodes studio petronella all rights reserved
 


[remembering the portal of innocence ~ reclaiming its potency, power and wisdom] 

the dresses lay folded
in the disintegrating attic box;

smooth purple velvets,
slick satins, rouge colored crepes
and tangerine chiffon…

this hot and sticky
august afternoon;

girls…

earthy, damp, sweaty hair;
blonde, and chestnut
and Martine’s jet black curls

moist, pursed lips,
capable girl-hands
with soft fingers:
pushing away the strands of silken hair
from their radiant eyes;
pools of pure intention... 

assisting each other;
with buttons,
thread-bare hooks and eyes,
failing zippers,
clasps and wrinkled sashes;

the fabric's once loud
and bodacious colors
now muted by the passing of time,
their fading witnessed by
the loyal cosmic cycles
of the sun and the moon,
through the attic portal...

a pried-open skirt seam
exposes a vivid shock
of original color
that, until now,
lay so quietly hidden
beneath its stitches;

sighs...  oohs...
such sublime collective delight,
in this simple archeological revelation...

outside the window,
muffled bird song
wraps them
in a living cocoon
of insulating sound,  

rising dust
from their discovery
renders the room dreamlike;
as an audacious beam of sunlight
floods through the window,
illuminating each tiny particle;
birthing brilliant, swirling galaxies...

finished dressing;
they sing
they dance,
they twirl
they rustle,
and swish their skirts...

feeling their hearts beating
in the sanctuary of their chests,
their mouths open and laughing,
the seeds of possibility
vibrating inside;
a riotous sense of belonging...

without inhibition; 

they fall
into a warm heap of layered flesh and textile,
in the center of the wallpapered room…

sweet breath
of wonder
hanging in the air;

bodies soft and unclenched,
primordial innocence...

self and other,
hand-in hand
as one

wrapping and twirling
hair between fingers,
adjusting disheveled braids,
fidgeting in forgotten pockets,
adjusting their borrowed frocks

and now the stories tumble out,
like shiny silver jacks from un-cupped hands;
into the river of sisterhood,
the tellers and the listeners taking turns; 

the raw and broken are lain
upon the altar of trust
with the same reverence
as are the whole, the mended,
and the shining;

weaving the great web
of wholeness
brighter,
stronger...

their salty, fragrant heads
nestling into each other's
yielding shoulders,

their toes pushing
firmly against each other,
to create even more
closeness

and, this is how
the afternoon passes;
in this nest of sisters...

sacred thread words & image ©  Heather Rhodes at  Studio Petronella
model: jane