Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the light enters us.”—Rumi,
Day 1:
The women huddle together. They are giggly, nervous. The sky is grey, heavy with rain clouds. They are dressed strangely—one layered in the rags of homeless fashion, one in fishnet, one all in black with a hood covering her head, obscuring her face.
Ugly brown weeds crowd the cracks in the parking lot asphalt. Behind the women is an old restaurant, red and gold paint peeling from the walls. Broken flowerpots, an abandoned grocery cart, and old milk crates line one wall. It’s the perfect backdrop for the work they are about to do.
A small, feral cat interrupts with persistent mewing. He thinks the women have come to feed him. We sense the others, hiding in dense shrubs beyond the edge of the parking lot. We feel their eyes upon us.
I know there will be other eyes throughout the day. Humans will be drawn to us. The women will not only experience what it means to be in their wounds, but they will also be seen in them, at their most vulnerable.
They will cry. They will curse at us. They will throw things and hide.
Cars will stop so drivers can stare. Some people will even approach us out of concern, interest, or pure curiosity to ask what we are doing.
The women will BE SEEN!
There is a moment in each shoot when the shift happens. The women in the group will have enough. Each will step into her own power. She will step into the truth—that she is not the ugly, stupid, worthless thing the belief has told her she is. That she is one with Source … a Divine Feminine beauty. That she has the power to create her life. That she has the responsibility to serve her clients, as she guides them out of the shadows of their own wounded beliefs.
And she knows she can do it, because she has now done it herself.
Day 2:
We gather again the following day.
Lindsay has curated some of the best photos.
I feel my breath catch as she sets up her computer in front of the women.
There is silence around us.
My hands begin to tingle. I feel the energy rise as the hair on my arms stands up.
I sense all of the unseen helpers gathering, holding the space sacred.
Lindsay pushes the start button.
The photos slowly reveal themselves, one by one, woman by woman.
The wounded parts are seen, honored, and loved.
The women sigh as their pictures are shown. They cry. They feel love for this part of themselves that they have previously shamed and hidden.
They fall in love with themselves.
We fall in love with them.
They see the light that Rumi spoke of.
Want to know about the Wounds Work? Drop me a note and I’ll get you all the details about our next gathering.
With all my heart,
