Cleansing the Soul

Amidst the quietude of a sun-dappled morning, I embarked on a peculiar ritual—a cleansing of the intangible. Armed with metaphorical soap and water, I stood at the threshold of my mind, ready to scrub away the residue of yesteryears.

First, the dreams. Those fragile, ephemeral things that once clung to my consciousness like morning dew on petals. I lathered them in suds, watching as they dissolved, swirling down the drain. Plans, too—they slipped through my fingers, leaving only a faint scent of possibility.

Next, memories. Some were like old photographs, sepia-toned and faded, while others were vivid and sharp, capable of inducing heebie-jeebies. I wrapped them in a cloth, tucking them away in the attic of my past. The door creaked shut, sealing them off from the present.

The fool’s cap—the whimsical accessory that once adorned my head, a symbol of youthful folly—found its way to the thrift store. Perhaps someone else would wear it, unaware of its history. And the basements of my consciousness? I descended into their dim recesses, hauling out junk and traumas, excuses and tricks. Each dusty box revealed a piece of my story, and I sorted through them with care.

Solitude had kept me company for too long, its rusty locks barring entry to the outside world. But today, I replaced them. New locks, polished and gleaming, allowed light to stream in. The windows swung open, and the room breathed—a sigh of relief, perhaps.

And then, the calendar. Its pages dog-eared and worn, chronicled seasons of joy and sorrow. With a deliberate gesture, I flipped to a fresh sheet. A guest bedroom awaited—a sanctuary for Love to rest, its linens crisp and inviting. The air smelled of lavender and anticipation.

Finally, my soul. I delved into its hidden corners, sweeping away cobwebs of doubt and regret. It was a thorough cleaning—an exorcism of shadows. And as I emerged, blinking in the newfound clarity, I realized: everything looked so much better in there. Lighter. Brighter. Ready for the next chapter.

So, dear reader, if you chance upon a serene room with an open window, know that it was once cluttered and dim. But one day, I cleaned up, deeply my soul, and now it holds space for Love to recline, weary but content. Life, like art, is a canvas—a delicate interplay of light and shadow. And sometimes, the most beautiful strokes are the ones that erase what was, making room for what could be.

? Beatriz Esmer