It’s like archaeology to me.  With training and the tools, I can recognize that I’m walking over ground that hides a bone, or metal, or some hidden burial ground.  Leaning on friends around me who have done this before, I dig.

Black dead things, old garbage, dirt that gets into every crevice of my body and clothes, mud, stones and sticks that seem to hurt when I move them out of the way.  Sifting the sand for the smallest treasure of goodness and setting the unusable gravel to the side.

I uncover puzzling items, like arrogance as protection, rebellion as freedom, secrets as power.  It takes me time to brush them off, clean them and see how they were used.  It is a process of gentle discovery of the ingenuity of the child of me that formed these amazing tools. I have survived, I am strong, and now I choose to shift.

There are jewels that I set in stone, artifacts that I hang on the wall in fond memories.  There are tools I brush off and still use.  The warrior and her anger is now my early warning system.  She screams and I see–“Wow!–I am afraid of this change!  I need to slow down.”

And some items I bury like the dead.  The bodies are no longer useful, they have worn out.  The spirit inside them has moved them through an astounding journey and they move to that dimension beyond my eyes, my life, my present time.  With deep honor and respect, I put rage into the ground and plant roses and watermelons above this grave.

New life now, new land, new me and new view of you.