Paper House
The velveteen rabbit was her favorite story as a child. One she was allowed to read despite being a child of god. In case you don’t know the story, the rabbit didn’t know he wasn’t a real bunny.
Rabbit spends the first half of his life confused and playing pretend. Just like the little girl did. The sweet bunny became a metaphor for her life. But she wouldn’t know it yet for many years.
She lived in an adorable cut and paste world, decorated with deceits that she fully believed were real. They dangled the painted picture promise of paradise in front of her face so closely three times a week that it became the make believe house she loved dearly to live in.
She felt safe there and stayed in this little paper house for the first half of her life. Feeling so sorry for those worldly people outside who didn’t know they could live forever like she would. She knew the rules and followed them closely. That would grant her eternal life they told her.
She became a mouth woven shut with pretty pink thread. Sitting at the right hand of god. All flaxen hair and good girl sweet thoughts.
Little bag packed with Bible, magazines for pushing into the hands of the worldly godless ones, and pens for notating details that must be kept.
She tried to turn her eyes away from bad things she saw. Everyone makes mistakes she knew. Kept her pink threads straight and minded her own beeswax.
Over time the paper house became brittle at the edges so she tried to hold it together with scotch tape. Years passed and by then the wind was whispering words of doubt in her ear. Questions she asked herself but never heard answers to.
Watched her friend live on a park bench cause gods love didn’t extend to cover metal health issues. Had men reach down her lavender lace shirt to feel up what she had on display. Heard cover up plans of those committing sex crimes who kept them hidden behind the doors of the church.
Finally she could hold it in no longer. She shredded apart those pretty pink threads and shouted her anger to the void of gods plastic soldiers. Into ears that were not designed to listen.
After her fit of rage she took a gaze down at herself, only to discover she was entirely constructed of threads. Thrown together quickly. Crisscrossed messily and full of gaping holes. She saw herself begin to unravel.
Untangling is never pretty and hers was nearly fatal. Tripping over her own legs. Crashing into bibles stacked above her head that tumbled out the edges of her tiny paper house. Too small to hold her very real thoughts. Too brittle to stand firm in the face of real truths.
In the end she lit that paper house aflame. Watched as the comers caught and the only world she knew burned down into the earth. No friends, no family. Just a small heap of gray ash.
But you know the old stories about what rises from the ashes. Turns out the myths are real. She rose out of those cinders more beautifully real than she ever could have imagined.
No longer made of too thin worn down threads. No loner living in a paper house. She turned into a real girl.
This real girl now builds community for women with workshops leading us back to our own INtuition INspiration and INtentions. In Person, In Maine. Learn more
xo - Jen
