written 11.6.2003
I just found and re-read this after many years and thought it curious. I hope you do too, enjoy!
I was the witness…
As it made its way around the corner it came into my view. I could see the elaborate form, an aura it could hardly hide. In reactionary fear I closed my eyes hoping it would dissipate. I wanted to chalk it up to an illusive tendency, but it could not be denied.
I swallowed hard and breathed in slowly, releasing a calming sigh. Continuing my pace forward I met it eye to eye.
When I was a child my thoughts were so unfamiliar (like dreams from another realm) that even today I question my sight. Alas, in my adult life I have surrendered to the internal movement and mystery of unknown and the great Divine. I’m puzzled though; wondering how a spirit of such beauty can move beside such horrific splendor? I suppose it is the vice of a perpetual demise, appearing to be such a simple mindless ideology, but surely that is the risk.
The day was slow, not prolonged, but calm in a surreal sort of way. When she spoke it was as if only silence could be heard. Each interaction she had was raw and without disguise. Some onlookers would approach her with ease as if drawn to her extraordinary light, while others could barely lift an eye trying to avoid at all costs her distant energy. The day went on like this, like the passing landscape viewed from a train.
She always felt a little different sometimes even odd, but lately there seemed to be a new found connectedness to everything around her. For instance, while sensing anger approaching her, she would experience the sensation of union and understanding as if it were her own. And, maybe it was. . .but, she did not attach to it, it simply glided over her like oil over water.
It all made sense to her, a puzzle complete. Although she seemed very emotionally involved in life and relationships she carried a certain sense of freedom and detachment, while remaining very much involved – resembling static electricity.
When evening dawned and the light of day was coming to a rest and as the singing leaves hanging from the trees praised the heats abandon, she set out on a walk. The same walk she took every night. Her steps on this particular evening were fluid and graceful, as if the airy breeze would lift the gravity from her being. In the midst of such a dreamy state a voice plagued her peaceful mind. It did not speak her language, but repeated a mantra sent from another place and time. Although the words were not comprehendible they seemed crystal clear. Similar to a mountain lake at sunrise, the mist seizes light fills the air as fog rises from the water. The perfect mirror appears, not a ripple in the sky.
At exactly this moment confusion and chaos set in as she turned to the side. Distracted by a seeker of a conscious mind, singing a lullaby that was left behind, her attention had been redirected. She thought it may be magic created by a spell, but whom could she look to as the creator. What godly creature would devise such a plan? Awww, to behold the bitter sweet taste of mystery. To experience a profound vibration and truly accept its nature, one must set all mental ideas aside.
At the time she hadn’t thought of what she now knows. Instead, she inquired unto her mind, seeking solace in the understanding of her own creation. Suppressing the craving to be guided by fear, she realigned herself, assessed her source, evaluated her desires, and decided to dive into those confronting eyes.
Hoping that she made a wise choice she faced the exotic beast and met it eye to eye. . .
An image she often would encounter in dreams was now present before her. Just as the horizon warmed her with the soft light of the moon it appeared to materialize with its rising, quenching her thirst to end a dreadful longing, to be jolted with a lightning bolt, something to pull her from an old life and into the new, a mentor to guide her through.
All in an instant, a profound stroke of a moment, the blessing fell upon her. It was hard for her to feel this way, beneath her chest a stabbing and a resurrection simultaneously. She so wanted to cry out from the bleeding, to seize the suffering of the pain, but her feet were already lifting from the ground. She did not grasp or try to collapse; instead, she swayed in joy, as if swinging from a tree limb, while the delicate breeze moved the leaves into song.
Just then, the image vanished as quickly as it appeared into the realm of wounded shadows.
I was the witness, a witness to the darkness behind my own eyes.
The end and the beginning . . .
Still nothing can be explained, as a witness of this strange act. However, the truth may hide or scare us away, when we embody our depths we welcome the challenge of surprise and the riddle becomes our muse.
She sets out on yet another walk with trust in the beckoning of what cannot be lost…
