Woman in Red: A Meditation

They say to me: “When you see this woman: you’ll know you have arrived.”

They hand me her photo. She is tall with a pot belly. She has thick hair and sparse eyebrows. Her arms and long and lanky like mine. She is wearing red. They point me towards the void with the sign over the door that says: “Keep walking”, and they repeat: “When you see her, you’ll know you have arrived.”

I roll rather than walk through. I hurtle forward, like a marble breaking against the world, searching for the woman who is me and not me, mine and not mine. My heart tells me I must find her. I must tell her all the things I keep from myself. All the quiet and unspoken things. All the made-up words of my childhood. All the haunted memories. My soul bids me creep back into her belly and make the world spin backwards.

I am still rolling, running, racing, through the past and into the space between two heart beats, towards the woman in red.

When I find her, I’ll know I have arrived.