I was alone the night I cut my head open. I was in the kitchen packing my things into boxes. There had been no eviction, foreclosure, or divorce. Yet I knew I had to leave my home.
I knew it several months earlier when the family of fox crept onto my deck and scratched at the door, crying out for something I did not have. And when I didn’t respond to their cries, they feasted on the fat groundhog that lived under my deck, leaving him gutted and belly-up in the grass for me to find.
I was a believer in animal symbolism and knew it was a sign.
When I clumsily hit my head on the glass kitchen lamp that night, I was angry with myself for rushing. For not paying attention. For everything not working out the way I had wanted it to.
As I wiped my arm across my forehead, a smear of red painted itself across my skin. I walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. A spot at the top of my forehead was open about half an inch, pulsing with garnet. I watched the blood pool along my hairline before deciding which path to take down my tired face.
I called my neighbor who came over with his first aid kit.
“Do I need stitches?” I asked him, already knowing his answer.
“No, you will heal on your own.”
When the scar formed, it tightened itself into the shape of a crescent moon…a symbol that priestesses used to get tattooed on their foreheads to represent their connection to the spirit world. I now know that this indelible symbol on my head is a reminder of the pain I had to endure before I could truly heal.