On Listening, and Allowing, and Silence [Writing]

What if instead of staying still and panting for air, of saying I can't run anymore because I'm all out of what I need to feed my lungs, I let the air in gently, bridled it? What if I trusted that a saddled breath could take me anywhere, and instead of hiding, I ran with the wild horses, the brumbies in the high country where the terrain is difficult, but the view is extraordinary? What if I squeezed my thighs tight against warm and heaving sides, slick with sweat, and felt the wind in my hair as we travelled upward upward, the world falling away beneath us, the sky above and the light white and illuminating the valley below until I had no need to shout 'I am', because I had become that that I was?

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"Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace." - Oscar Wilde

What if I softened a little, took a breath and let in the tiger who is scratching at the door? What if it's paws were bloody from pacing the yard, and a thistle caught in the soft pads of it's feet? What if I grabbed the antiseptic tea-tree from the laundry, and some cotton balls and water, and gently wiped the blood away, finding the sharp splinter and tugging it gently with tweezers? What if I grabbed a twig of rosemary, and scraped the dried blood from it's nails, until it purred and put it's heavy head in my lap, so we were both breathing at once, soft rumbles of contentment until the beast slept, and I slept, and we were one?

What if instead of running, I stayed still, and crouched down to allowing the giant lizards to come to a curious halt, with nothing to climb? What if I offered it meat with a calm outstretched hand, and we both based in the sunshine side by side, the hot rocks warming our cold skin and the ants tickling our skin? What if I stared into their nictating eyes and saw myself mirrored there, and felt happy for a while, inside my lizard self with my scales and my soft insides? What if it was so quiet even the sound of the crickets faded in the stifling air?

What silence!
The voice of the cicada
Penetrates the rocks

-Basho
What if I stopped feeding the kite and the eagles, the kestrels and the owls and the goshawks that tapped tap tapped at my door and cawed outside my window, that screeched over my trembling flesh as they fought and shrieked overhead? What if I simply forgot to leave out carcasses that brought them back, left the binoculars in the draw and the camera on the shelf with no film to capture their talons, beaks and glinting eyes?

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What if, when the demons knocked at the door, I put on my kimono, the one with the dragon stretching from skirt to shoulder and the mountains, and put the water on to boil and took the special green tea leaves from the shelf? The green ones, that unfurled in the water like tiny blossoms or babies unfurling from sleep? What if I gave them the best cushions in the house, and asked them what they wanted today, and could I do anything to help?And what if I listened, truly listened, to the sound of their breathing in and out the universe, and the tump tump of their heartbeat, and closer still, heard the blood thrum thrum through veins, the lymph, felt the shifting of tiny bones and large, the organs, each cell, the energy move through each one?

What if I let all resistance go, all fighting, and truly, truly listened?

"There comes a time in every life when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your heart." - Sarah Dessen


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"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit." - EECummings