Of Old Wounds and Onions

She woke up with a start.

The ridiculous sleep patterns had become such a norm that being awakened at 3am no longer frustrated or confused her. Except tonight, she felt a crystal ball being shoved into her hands.

She blinked twice as her mind raced to try and process the imagery in the crystal ball the same time memories of a seven year old episode came rushing back. It unsettled her so much that she lay awake for a while, simply letting it hurt.

The next thing she knew, her alarm was going off and she wondered if it was all but another one of those strange dreams she's had a lot of recently. But there it was again, the crystal ball staring back at her--this time along with a note from her best friend.

"Hope you're alright."

She swallowed as the seven year old episode slowly washed over her again. It was an old wound, really, and she had, for a while now, been waiting for this. This day when the last blade from the old wound would finally be pulled out so that she can finally close it all up and let it heal completely.

Vague images of who she was prior to that episode came sweeping over. And who she became after the episode. And how she found her voice. And how she started to believe in herself...

"I could have made that work, you know..." she heard him say.

Her eyes did not leave the crystal ball for a second. When she finally spoke, she only shook her head and said, "Yes, but I wouldn't."

It was only after that seven year old episode that she felt the release. The crystal ball brought her back to the streets of Atlanta, to Krispy Kreme donuts and homeless people trading for drugs. To Mexico, to where her value of time and the important things in life were redefined. To a reservation in South Dakota, to where she fell in love with "bad" kids. To the streets of Berlin, to the women working on the streets, for whom her heart was broken.

Really, that seven year old episode opened her heart up to love.

She leaned in to him as he gently wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the open wound, her eyes still not leaving the crystal ball for a second. She saw herself age over the seven years, more and more jaded by the depravity that accumulated after the seven year old episode. She saw her dreams change as depravity made her question why she even had permission to dream big dreams. She saw herself no longer shocked by violence because she had seen so much of it.

And then she saw herself sitting on the pew in church that Sunday, doodling. It had become part of her way of processing sermons when she had the chance to sit in for them, and the doodles were usually about being on some kind of journey, or a brick wall of resistance, or some deep thought of the day. But that day, she simply doodled, and it wasn't until she heard the young lady next to her whisper, "What's that?" that she realised it was an onion. She wasn't sure what it meant because the sermon was about how the Creator saw its creation.

As she stared into the crystal ball, she understood.

"I am the onion."

Every layer was a symbol of the different faces of who she had become. And every time she moved, she had options to play with, of which layer she wanted to be. She could be the shy, quiet kid from many layers ago, or the hesitant pursuer from not too many layers after that. She could be the layer that opened up her heart to peoples and lands without a second thought, or the vagrant that chose to claim no land as home. She could be the loyal friend who stood her ground, or the reconciler who would not stop loving.

Yes, an onion. A pungent, stinky onion. And probably one that reeks too, after all the experiences of depravity and jadedness.

"Or just flavourful..."

She finally turned to look at him. Him who had been holding her through the peeling back of every layer. She searched his eyes questioningly, how can this be?


"Cooked just well enough to add flavour to anything that encounters you. But you could also just choose to sit around and stink up the kitchen, you know. Your choice," he whispered gently, his arms still firm around her, well aware of the pain from that old wound.

Even though she had been dreading this day where the last blade would be pulled out because she did not want to revisit the wound, she was glad it finally did come around.

In her heart, she gave thanks that the day finally came, even if only seven years later.
And she gave thanks for the seven years in between of being cooked to just the right flavour.
And she gave thanks for the best friend who held no judgment that it had taken seven long years, never hurrying it along, only simply being there to say, "I wish you love BFF. All will be good."