Now she sits at a small plain patio just outside her studio,
a cool, dark walk from the dorms.
Cement, cracked and damp with yesterday’s rain. An old wrought iron and table set, black
paint peeling but not yet rusting, holds her body as well as her coffee
mug. Her spirit is tugging at the leash,
smells earth, grass, thistle, pollen from a dozen sources, hears Blue Jay,
warbler, swallow. She draws on her
coffee like a cigarette. Exhales
caffeine.
The highway in the distance is a dull reminder of rubber on
pavement: The World. The same way her bed,
with its smooth clean sheets, the electricity that filled her room with
artificial light before dawn, and the gasping Mr. Coffee in the kitchen,
reminded her. She is under no delusions
of edenic seclusion or escape. But she doesn’t have to turn on the news. Doesn’t need to hear stories about savage
loss, grief that cannot be captured and subdued, humanity stripped by those who
have already given up their own.
No. She’d rather
focus on the three nearly perfect drops of water, three sisters made of dew,
that have collected themselves exactly in the center of the back rod of a
wrought iron chair. Hang there full of
light and birdsong.
She’s found a pocket of green thistles that haven’t hit
August heat yet, haven’t burst out in purple finale like the last statement on
a fireworks display:
The tin roof of a barn building. The gray cement blocks of a studio wall. The flash of all-out-every-single-wing-span white
bars on a mockingbird’s feathers, seen from beneath, against a pale turquoise
sky scudded with morning clouds.
She is building beauty here, storing grace. Hopes to bring some of it back with her across
the divide.
Like those three jewels of water still hanging, she doesn’t
know how long she’s got before gravity or evaporation pulls everything in
another direction.
Just for this window of grace, catch light. Hold it, reflect it. Revel in it.
How can she look away?
These spheres contain everything she ever hopes to find. Everything she ever hopes to become. Suspended, curved perfection. A sister on either side. How lucky is that?
The moon continues her descent, rotating out of the scene
like a dancer who cherishes her role.
Stars and planets keep the slow waltz across the sky unseen, know that
holding their places is crucial to the choreographic whole. The throaty clutch and croak of crows as they
make their slow way across a field, hop from bush to dead tree branch to grassy
clearing. A thin weave of cricket voices
rises up, holds this morning together.
A fiery star burns through the greenery, joins the three
pearly sisters glowing on iron, and for a moment, the sacred number blesses all
with memory of what really is real.
There is North, and South, and West, and East. What
else do I need to know? she asks.
Morning answers, That
one plus one plus one plus one equals, only and always, One.
Thank you for the gift of beauty.
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