Not everything is about you, of course, but that's just it. This was. You went to the Starbucks bathroom and when you came out you saw yourself on his sketchbook and you realized he HAD been watching you. You looked at yourself on his page, you looked past him to him and you realized you were not invisible although that is how you had lived and felt for the many years you walked by his side. It was, if you'll allow it, a kind of rebirth. To be seen.

And a few years before that you had had this vision of your body, your grown outlandish adult woman body, wet and sleek with afterbirth, your long dark hair darker from the slime, curled like a comma in a hand that must have been His, against a pulsing black backdrop. This was your first second birth. And many many years before that in a peach-colored dining room you had had a similar image, only this one was you in your flannel strawberry pajamas, a smaller thing, undeveloped yet and flat, in the same hand. Not reborn, just held.

Now, as you shed your doubt and bitterness in pounds of flesh, you again are reborn and revealed anew. All of this is just uncovering. We uncover down to our pith until maybe our teeth are left and maybe our bone pieces file down other bones pieces as they are all gravelled into the world. If we are lucky we may see the thing happen in moments, like a trick of the eye, like the hour hand's Pleiadean  twitch to the new hour.

To be blessed is to know it is happening, the uncovering, the birthing, and to allow silence and space and sometimes a song to stitch the two ends together.

My life is a quilt I will lie beneath when all the pieces have been gathered.