"My name is Paola and I'm twenty-six. Since I was a girl, I've had a very adversarial relationship with my body. Growing up in a very religious environment only made things worse. My father, who I haven't seen in years, was a pastor, so I was raised beside this presence that I was discouraged to question. I began throwing up, fasting, binging and exercising in high school, as a misguided act of self-preservation. These days, I won't eat for a few days until I feel lethargic. Every day feels like my final day on earth or like it might be. I've always had a morbid imagination, but, sometimes, it gets unbearably dark. The realization that I was an Atheist came in almost insufferable waves. They beat upon me until I found the shore, until I found solid ground."

"It takes courage to share, Paola. Thank you. Have any of  us had similar experiences?" said the group leader, a gray-haired woman with spectacles.

"Well," a young man with gray, flashing eyes began, "I came up in sort of the same way, but in reverse. My parents were secular academics. I stumbled upon spirituality, but I have lapses - long ones. Eventually, I started exploring self-harm and drinking until…"

Her surroundings became inaudible and she fell into the deep chasm of her body. She was six years old again, running from her mother in the blinding rain. She was found an hour later by her father in the middle of a vast stand of trees on their property, staring at the body of a deer. Afterwards, she didn't speak for two days but broke her silence by saying, "I hate it when you fight. Why does everything have to die?" A few months later, her mother filed for divorce and the two of them went to stay in the city.

When she began to feel like herself again, the group began dispersing. While folding her chair, she tried to steady her trembling hands. As she was leaning it against a wall with the others, she stood next to the man who spoke. Their eyes met and he extended an open hand. She briefly took hold of it and let go.

"My name's Bodhi. It means 'enlightenment'. My parents liked it so much they were willing to overlook its meaning. I don't know if you heard, but we're having a Burning Ceremony tomorrow night. Just bring something you want to say goodbye to."

A lament, feral and mercurial, stormed beyond the barricaded veneer of her face. She felt as if her body were disintegrating into infinite gradations of blue. This sensation, coupled with the sweltering July heat, contributed to her rising euphoric state. She smiled and told him she was pleased to make his acquaintance.

She ascended the building's basement stairs and stood, for a moment, under absconding sunlight. A large, gothic cathedral loomed to her right; the shadow of its spires and frame enveloped passersby, surrounding buildings, restless trees and slow-moving traffic. She lit a cigarette, crossed the street and waited for the bus.

That night, in bed, her thoughts spilled to her childhood. Her mother washed her in the tub, sang hymns and said her name: "Paola, you're a prophet," or "Paola, you're a genius." Like a pebble, her attention sank to even deeper depths of her experience.

Memories of her father, often tightly coiled and inflamed, rapidly unfurled at the forefront of her mind. Her resistance soon gave way to hot tears that ran down her temples into her dark hair. She was eight years old again, bleeding onto the fresh, Michigan snow. She ran from the group of jeering children into her father's office. He handed her a napkin.

"Here. Now, go back and make them bleed. No child of mine will be made weak."

She turned and slowly left the house with the napkin held to her nose. When she reached them again, she turned and saw her father standing on the porch. Two of the children needed medical attention when she was finished. Her father pulled her off of them and could barely wrest the tree branch from her bloody fists. She screamed and a flock of red finches fled into the clear sky. He placed his palm over her mouth until she opened her teary eyes. He carried her inside and placed her on the couch, near the raging fireplace. She stared into the flames for a long time, until falling into a deep sleep.

When she emerged from this reverie, she turned on the light and opened the closet door. After rummaging for a while, she placed a small box on the bed. She opened it and retrieved the Bible she'd studied up until she was thirteen.

She arrived to the meeting early and found Bodhi and the group leader talking over tea. She grabbed a cup and joined them.

"So, Paola, what'd you bring for today's Burning Ceremony?" The group leader said.

"I want to let go of my Bible. It taught me some things about who I am, but it came at a cost. It represents an oppressive and painful period of my life. That's why I chose it."

"I chose this photo of my mother. Everything was fine between us until it wasn't anymore. For a long time, I let myself be defined by her shame and disappointment. In my teens, she shoved me into room after room with highly educated strangers who trained me to perform a version of myself that was acceptable to her. She was a fucking tyrant. The most difficult thing to accept is that I'm just like her," Bodhi said.

That night, the group built and lit a bonfire in the empty lot adjacent to their meeting place. The resulting conflagration soared, crackled and danced before their illuminated faces. Paola tossed her Bible into its center and waited for the deafening momentum of her life to finally slow down and to come into focus. She felt no different.