for the first time the past is past

I was his.

But am I still? Oh, in some wise, some part of me will always be. Part of myself I am simply not going to get back, because I gave it away so completely. But the remainder is mine. The rest of me was returned, or never left. It is both by right and responsibility that I take myself back, in the next restructuring. And it is far, far past time to do so.



So I start to build, here. Such a small foundation, but it will grow. This is where it begins. All things start, just as all things end, and this is both.

I was his.

And I have been living in the last third of that statement for far too long. Yes, I can accept and integrate that I was his, but now it is more important to allow myself the realization that I was his. And that the time of being his is past, as so much else is past, has passed.



So gather stones, and hew the wood. Pour foundation, call it good. Make the space and call it home, and know that we are not alone.

I was his.

And I raise the walls of the shelter, to keep me safe in the heart of winter. The door is unlocked but it is shut firm; there are no tracks to follow that will lead to my dwelling place. I am as safe as my insecurity and doubt will allow, which is a great deal safer than I have been in the past.



And all who truly know me, know how to reach me. Everyone else will have to brave the winter to get here, and even hardy spirits may well refuse to face the cold. For these will become my new truths:

• I do not have to be close to be welcoming.
• I do not have to be in love to be amused.
• I do not have to scream and break to say no.
• I can walk away at any time.