The Shadow

The world around us glimmers with hope. Each cloud speaks of innumerable alternatives, each word spoken unfolds a cataclysmic fall of events, distinct as colors, bright as the sun.

I remember a day in which our world fell under a great shadow. We put down our forks and knives, and walked to the windows as the darkness came silently. I looked across the lawn to a leafless tree, watching each branch etch the air with a sigh, as a last breath.

At that time, we did not know death. In later years, we would come to know it all too well, but we never did accept it.

With the shadow came the cold, and with the cold came the inexplicably unceasing wind. I took off, on the wing of a bird, to find warmth, but all was frozen.

Our feet could no longer touch the earth, and we carried fire with us always. To this day we are known as the people of light, for we were the ones who took it with us.

Within that shadow, everything changed. Love was a challenge, as calloused hearts grew thicker without an ebb and flow of warmth and light. Many froze to death, not from the cold, but from their own hardness.

We laughed about our clean teeth after awhile, and after more time, forgot about clouds and rain, feathers and snow, pools and blooms. We forgot about sweat and tears, even blood wouldn't run from our icy veins.

The sky spoke tales to us, but in a tongue we could not understand. To escape its uneasy messages, we fled to the caves and watched the flames against the walls. We chewed sticks. Our bodies no longer had heat for food, and life had long passed from the fields and flocks. There was but one day, as even Time herself had abandoned us.

In my dreams, the walls of the cave were no longer made of stone, but something warm and soft and light. I saw things long forgotten, and colors beyond those of the flames, but my words had long departed from my throat, and upon awakening the visions left like smoke.

After one dream, I awoke to find myself no longer chewing a stick, but grasping it familiarly. I found myself dipping into the coals and moving my wrist furiously, scratching ash into the walls, a form of speaking I had not recalled.

Someone glanced away from the flickering flame and read my ashen words. They prophesied, "We will all be changed."

Noise

I long for days filled with a new breath,
A freshening air,
Throughout my brain.

Lately, so many have called upon my services, rendered only in courage. A woman must have courage, if she is to be any use whatsoever.

Hello, my suitor. I am calm as I address you, though the wind blows through my hair and ruffles my skirt.

I am the stillness of each day, and the eye of a hurricane. I am the steps in soft silt, walking silently for days through the eternally erasable desert.

I am the lily of the valley, a sign of something new and pure, yet fleeting as a cool breeze. I am the pause before you speak, the water flowing beneath your feet and the kindness seeping from her eyes.

When you and I are alone, we walk as one, each wave overwhelming our footsteps. We ride atop a grey elephant, as king and queen, and step down so many steps into rooms of burnished gold.

No one knows our story.

I am the darkness that covers you, and the light that comes to alert you of your tasks. I am the stillness that comes again and again.

We are under many stars, and time has once again become a friend, a loyal dog that lies at our feet. The music that flows inspires a new world to begin again, a world filled with children and dancing that shakes the ground beneath us.

The sounds reverberate through each vertebrae in my spine, rattling my ribs and dancing with my heart. Yes, my heart is changing, red to gold and back, as I bend forth, my ears arching into the rhythms before me.

I blink, and hear we are. Time has vanished, as has the distance between us, yet we remain to listen.

A cup of steaming tea sits between us. I look up from the reflection, and into your eyes. The world has gone, without sadness or fear, yet not without saying farewell.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
Shall it be a day of
Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow?

Oh dear Lord, let me not speak another lie or curse,
Rather let me pronounce the cures.

You and I are one
You see
You and I and the bumblebee

So take a big breath, and blow away,
All the lies that've crept in our stay.

Blow and blow and blow and blow
All the way
To another day

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Dell Hospital, Austin

I've spent the past three days with my friend, Lisa, who is a foster mother and parent of two little girls she adopted out of the system. The little boy she is caring for is in the hospital with no kidneys and has been in the intensive care unit for the past two months. Lisa is here every day with her daughters, 5 and 6, sitting in a small room or playing outside.

I spent yesterday at her home, cleaning, and five hours of solid cleaning was better than a morning here. Every moment simply feels as though it would be better spent just about anywhere else. There is something eternally disquieting about a hospital. It's cold and impersonal, from the staff to the books and plastic toys dropped off by the toy cart. It's just exhausting.

We had a moment of playing outdoors, and for that moment I felt free. If I'm feeling the strain after just a couple of days, I simply don't know where she draws her patience from. Caring and caring and caring for children can be rewarding when you see them improve, but I certainly don't have the patience that most caretakers possess, particularly when confined to a small room. It is truly an attitude of selflessness.

The hospital I dream of is much different from this antiseptic place. It is filled with sunshine and green plants. Dirt abounds, and playing in it is encouraged. The hospital is set amidst vineyards, and red wine flows in the evenings under starry, clear evenings. Fluorescent lights are replaced with soft bulbs, linoleum by hardwood floors and plastic by glass and wood cabinetry. My hospital is warm and filling to all who step into it. Food is doled out liberally and eaten communally.

When it is cold, fires are lit. Warm weather leads to open windows. There are no distractions, but just play and work and routines. We pray in the morning, afternoon and evening. There is no 'therapy' but every patient is given movement every day. No one wears scrubs, and the uniforms are warm and inviting, different shades of brilliant scarves, like saris.

The children are cared for using every piece of medicine in the known world. They are prayed over, and given to God. They are held and rocked and sung to. They get better and better. Every child gets better. Deeply better.

It is truly a place of healing ministry.