Distancing, Becoming

By Hilary Cline, New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.

I am drinking from a teacup of change, with sand falling through an hourglass behind me. My skin is changing color, hibernating in the wrong season. "Where is the safe vessel?"

I am slowing down and sinking into ecstatic time. There is no other place to dwell, than in my own body. This I know! It is not only a turn inward to the quiet, intuitive soul, but an echoing wail to humanity. In between, the birds sing louder. A string sleeps on my doorstep.

If I look closely enough, three women float around me. They are whispering to me, "Now. Now is the time. Do not waste your life!" There is a swing over my heart. There. There, I am. I sing in the air, falling backwards. In the thickness of forgetting, there is everything that I never uttered. I am remembering, before I arrived. Roaming in the dark, the edges find me. By day, I am shifting with the passing clouds. I receive, without speaking.

There is a stem balanced on my head, reminding me that my spirit chose to be here. With each breath, a bouquet of diamonds cascades from my hands. In isolation, I cleanse my unconscious. I stop. I listen. For as long as it takes, I will smell the scent of a lemon.

I disappear into the branches and into a dream. I've always been half underground. With a garden of poppy and hydrangea at my feet, I have been hiding for a very long time. Where is the sacred union in my own life? Here.

Now, I must go back inside, and only so that I may step out once more. How will I re-enter the world? In my stuttering silence, I am not alone. Alone.

The wild animals sigh, shy and slowly returning. Everything that touches you, touches me. Everything that touches me, touches you. It is a dance. It is an invitation.

Reaching for something higher, reaching … everything is upended. Will there be a hand to meet mine? From deep below and in the salty sea, the child that was never born calls to me.

-Original art by the author