I  sit on a seat worn with centuries of use and pray – dear God, please help me. I done feel I have done anything wrong and yet I have broken vows, betrayed my husband and committed adultery.

And yet.  It still seems to me to be a worse sin not to follow my curiosity, not to fully explore what it is to be me.  Not to cut loose the tangled, deeply constraining bonds I had been wearing day and night and replace them with ones I chose.  Ones I consented to, in a specific time and place.  Ones that were taken off and the marks massaged out.  Ones that brought pain and pleasure in equal measure to both parties.

Long, low light through a rose window bathes me in its glow. Stone worn smooth with pilgrims and sinners alike as they are drawn to this house that hums with prayer murmured by tongues and in minds for centuries.

All of us falling short.  All of us gloriously flawed.  All of us trying imperfectly.  All of us good enough.

I breathe this in.  This air with its vibrancy, thick and fortified.  The host’s lights are not lit but their glow is present as the sunlight dips and touches each red glass.

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