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Soul to Soul Resuscitation
Inside a voice.
Whispering pulling, thrashing.
Outside a face in the mirror.
Tired, confused, lost, stern, unrevealing to none but these tormenting eyes looking back at me with mock pity.
My fragile body lies enveloped in whiteness, listless, willing to be drawn into the peaceful embrace of oblivion.
Silence is full of echoing murmurs. Who dwells in this form? This complex embodiment of life?
Footsteps.. far.. far away.. moving around me like shadows.
Am I dead?
I reach out and a hand takes mine and for once I feel something akin to
warmth. It permeates my being and I sit up as if stung.
When young and hurt I used to run into my mother's arms and cry for an hour before returning to play; heart light, wound bandaged and safe. Gently and with experienced hands she would treat the wound. When the blood stopped I would grow, taller, bigger, brighter, renewed force within and a whole life to explore ahead of me.
Suddenly I open my eyes. I am "here" but nowhere! The light is harsh. I see the hospital room; white, clean, big, but much smaller than the void inside. I see the concern, the love, and I taste the pain; salty, bitter, hot like burning coals of fire.
Mom would you stop the pain today? Could you? I want to go back to my dolls, my bicycle, my playmates. I want to kiss the butterflies' wings and tease the grasshoppers into hopping away. I want to step into the muddy puddles and count the spots on the back of the ladybug. I want to throw pebbles into the pool and watch with fascination as the sun plays hide and seek amongst the lofty spring clouds.
But mom can no longer see the blood, she no longer knows of the hurt, her hands can not make the pain go. She has no special bandage with which to dress the wounds.
I am here on my own.. and it is my job now to be my own doctor, to ease my pain, to find a way back into the world. Ah! There will always be a memory now, the world is no longer a playground where childhood sorrows are buried in the sandbox or high up on the swings or in the laughter of the other children. The world is a fierce new planet where only those with the will to survive remain and inside that arena all you have to carry as your shield and sword is your will and faith.
And yet as I close my eyes again I see- no feel- her; her small face, bright eyes overflowing with dreams, ears full of the music of the trees, running towards me, her pony tails lashing at the demons of the adult world. She beckons to me to open my hand. I look at her with wonder.. with amazement.. with longing..
What will she give me after all these years?! What can she offer me this "dreamer child gone wild"? Her hand opens slowly and at first I see nothing. She places something into the palm of my hand. It is warm.. soft.. very much alive.
As I look into my hand I see it is a Monarch butterfly; so fragile, so delicate, so illuminating, a breathtaking sight. Will it fly away? No! for there it stands fluttering with such pride and such determination. To some it is a helpless creature which dies so young, to others it's a symbol of life, an emblem of nature's genuine power, a trademark of beauty which, though delicate, brings overwhelming pleasure to all who set eyes upon it, for what it is regardless of its short life span and its seemingly helpless disposition!
I look up. I am alone again ,and yet I have been touched deep inside, and I am suddenly so conscious outside. I look out at the trees as their branches sway in the wind. I can "hear" them pray. I can smell the air faintly, but I am not blind or deaf to them. To them I am sister, daughter, close friend. There they are, always taking me back into their arms, healing my soul with the essence of their simple yet profoundly meaningful being. Their sweet notes are the life support that pumps blood into my veins, oxygen into my lungs.
Like the earth I shall have seasons of drought and I shall have seasons of plentiful harvest. Ah!! But I must endure the nature of my humanity and drink from my own cup with my own hand. I am restricted in physical form, but also very much alive in spirit, alongside the tree ,the bee, the worm..
In so many ways I am still a child overgrown with life. My pain will be part of the music and my human blood will feed its soul. This is the natural school of arts wherein I have long been studying and wherein I have long to learn before I can flutter with pride like the butterfly; the school of human hearts and souls.