Becker, Julia Margaret
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The child says "Tell me a story from your real life." And that is all one can really do. First there was the egg, then the pulse and rhythm. The egg spoke of procreation and fertility. The inside of the egg spoke of generation and synapsis. Drawings made with eyes closed followed closely. Reams of paper unfurled through veils of tears, marked by an unsteady heart searching for light, these blind drawings. Rowers bloomed out of darkness and birth was vulnerability and immense power all at once. At the moment of birth all present understood death, and how we pass through both thresholds and sometimes wait on the edge, holding tight. Prayers followed, prayers for survival, growth, generation. Gold papers cut ever so gently, quietly, each one a specific prayer for a specific child. In the meantime there were angels, fallen angels, earthly angels, guardian angels, oceanic angels. They came with fragile skin, strong wings, and empowering souls. They brought hope from ancestors and strangers and some danced with an awkward grace. The milk flowed and the child opened her mouth to the sky. Momentum caught and the wheel of life began to turn once again.