magoa
“We are already free beings: what lies before us is how we yoke ourselves. What’s valuable enough that you would commit yourself so that there is more at stake than merely your own narrow interests? When we have clear boundaries, then we have no limits.”
The girl is moulting, dropping skin in sheets. She uses a palm to assess the dryness lightly; not so bad. Her nails fluorescent, she chose purple polish for her fingers and toes—bruised fruit. The girl needs a dark spot to focus on as she sheds.
It started two weeks ago. Around the girl's knees and elbows. Those angular points where the skin is much thinner. The back of her hands and underside of her chin were next. Light white layers appeared where the girl was once flush and warm.
You’re parched, said the physician. Drink more fluids.
The girl drank entire lakes. Still, bits of skin flaked, flitted and eventually fell off—like dried petals or pressed flowers. She was a buoyant ecosystem brimming with Marsh Marigold and mosquitoes. A swamp.
Liquids did not reassure.
Oil, you need more fats, said the therapist. Take Omega-3s. Rub your body with Rosehip and Jojoba.
The girl ate fillets of salmon wrapped in brown wax paper. Barbeque grilled with a slight lemon and smokey flavour, she’d walk the street chewing the flesh of the fish. If anyone inquired, she said it was a salmon sandwich. But there were no bread, sauce, or veggies. Just protein in a bag. Like her.
Your fluids are not flowing, the Acupuncturist said. The lymph is blocked. You need to exercise. Do yoga; it will improve your flexibility and improve drainage.
The girl did yoga every day. She stretched her hands forward to her toes and wrung-out toxins with twists. She performed lunges to strengthen her legs and backbends to express the front line. She grew stronger. She had more patience. She could focus for more extended periods. Still, her skin sloughed in handfuls from her forehead, chest, and thighs.
Your nervous system is in flight mode. You must give up caffeine, the Ayurvedic Doctress said. It narrows the brain’s blood vessels. It causes your Prana to move up and out—you are depleting your body of nourishment, Ojas.
The girl gave up coffee. She replaced her morning milk and java with matcha. She ordered Golden Chai and Tumeric Mylk at the cafe she frequented with a peanut butter cookie. She suffered headaches for six days. On the seventh day, the craving relented.
Even still, flakes of cells coated her bedsheets and towels.
The girl no longer perceived the event as unusual. It was removed from her level of cognition; where did all the layers come from? How did she keep multiplying? She took to washing her bedding and bathing clothes daily. Sweeping was the bookends of her day. A new ritual was born: rise, rinse, brush, and lotion.
The girl avoided the sun between noon and early evening. She purchased a natural-bristled brush to massage her skin, stroking upwards towards the heart. The Doctress advised that lymph drains at the left armpit area, so the girl moved her hand with gentle strokes to the node. The girl prepared processed-free foodstuffs she ate, sitting down in her wooden chair under the window. She steamed green veggies and made bone broth. She ate hearty grains like farrow, barley, quinoa, and brown rice. She purchased a blender and spent Monday afternoons making exotic sauces and spreads. Pistachio pesto, paprika hummus, artichoke aioli. She walked everywhere, and her body became lithe and stripped of superficiality. She attended yoga and pilates classes and made friends with practitioners at the studio.
The girl attended workshops with her new friends. They signed up for philosophy lectures on Tantra, Yoga Nidra training, an Asana + Anatomy Series, and a cozy month of meditation on the heart chakra where they drank tea and sat on cushions that smelt of lavender.
One weekend, the girl joined the group to attend an event in Seattle. The four girls booked a train and accommodation nearby the studio so they could tour on foot. The girl worried over the moulting; she was still flaking something fierce. On the first morning, she set her alarm to be up before the other girls. She rolled from the plushy white bed, quietly dusting the pillow and sheets before sliding her feet into blue slippers and padding to the bath.
Leaving the lights dim, the girl locked the door and prepared herself by the mirror. Provocative cheekbones offered themselves under tight white skin. Her dark hair crackled beneath her fingertips. As she scrubbed her face with the soft white cloth and a bit of oil, the girl assessed this new visage. Her once lanky limbs were now plump with muscle. Soft breasts curved as her shoulders. She stepped into the shower to allow the steam to wash the rest of herself away. The residue disappeared down the drain.
The girl met her friends in the kitchen. French toast sizzled in the cast iron pan. Coffee burbled on the stove. Gurgling like swallows over breakfast, the girls bob from countertop to washbin to bedside—popping berries in their mouths between brushing teeth and donning sports bras.
After the event, the girls purchase wine and fresh pasta sheets from a local grocer. They make vegetarian lasagna with four layers of cheese, mushrooms, zucchini, and artichoke. The girl drinks more than she eats. Laying on the grey carpet, careful not to spill the decanter of grape, she tells her friends of the disintegration of her skin.
You look radiant, one girl says; you’re always glowing! Why do you care?
The skin is the outer-most layer of your being; it protects your inner world. Think of it as a wrapper around a sticky toffee. Without it, you would ooze everywhere. Flaking is a sign of deep, inner healing. You’re energetically purging.
The emotion associated with skin disorders is disgust. Revulsion is a powerful sensation that expresses itself through a physiological reaction. It’s a refusal to accept—intolerance embodied.
The girl listens, not one to refuse guidance. The girls do not offer a resolution, just individual morsels of sagacity.
It rains the entire train ride home. Thick drops pound devilishly against the metal, shaking the trees. The girl is dry-mouthed and tired. Her new friends draw pictures and tape them to the windows. A bag of blood oranges appears, and the girl is grateful for a distraction, sucking the juice. To Supreme A Citrus Fruit, Joe would say.
At the station, the girls bid goodbye with kisses. She walks home in the rain. She can still taste the tang on her lips. When she arrives at her studio, the rooms are coated in shadows. It smells damp. Underwhelmed by the water, the girl paints her nails. She chooses a ripe red for her toes and a pale pastel orange for her fingers.
The girl prefers to match the fashion of the pulp and skin—that rich juice that squirts and sticks.
Photo source.
