The thread is cut. I am free on the wind. The thick hawser to family has been fraying for years, down to a rope, to a slim rope, to a line, to a thread, to a single strand of silk. Snap, and I am flying free.
This is not what I expected. It takes so long to saw through that hawser, the blood relatives and old family friends whispering behind my back, yelling at my face, rumors, gossip, lies. I kept fighting them. Each time I truly revolted and stood my ground, another bit frayed.
They say, "You will crash!" They say, "You can't do without us!" They say, "If only you would be nice!" as they pass another poisoned story around, a sick game of telephone, adding warped details along the whispering line. They say, "No one will love you if you don't do what we say! You are unlovable! Look at how your behavior tears our bonds and wounds us! If only you would choose not to hurt us!"
Yet I keep hearing the Beloved: in the wind, in the clouds, in the air, in the trees. In the voices of the birds, the face of a fox, the snapping turtle curious and unafraid, the mink growling, the deer watching, alert. Beloved: I strain at the hawser, the rope, the string, the thread.
The last silk thread is cut and I am flying free. My heart opens with joy. I am in the wild and of the wild and I am flying to the Beloved, free in the air. I am earth and air and water, fire and hope.