Each time anew,
another practice in letting it go and giving it up.
Surrendering it to the Big Something.
About 10 steps back.
Hands like Tai Chi slowly retreating from the reach that
once would pull me
oh so slyly off-center,
that would pull me
oh so quickly down-under.
Yeah, all stepped back now,
way back,
and those relinquished hands
soon,
so soon,
they are risen high in the Holy Spirit devotion like the
hallelujah girls on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights,
filled with a love so full that those bodies cannot hold it,
and eyes become the pressure valve of lovingness in liquid form.
I am stretched out big and wide,
swimming in the soup that sources me,
diving deep into the roots of my feminine line —
the ancestors from just before now to all the way back when,
to the mother of all mothers,
to the La Que Sabe who says,
there ain’t nothing you can give me
that me and mine haven’t already survived.
Mmm mmm mmm
Every. Time. Anew.
Badass ain’t about toughening.
Badass is staying soft in my own skin,
letting the vulnerability live all the way out loud,
recognizing the pretender when she rises,
and settling her down
again.
Not a fist.
Not a shield.
Just these hands,
these scarred and open hands,
and nothing in them.
© Sabrina Santa Clara, 2013