“The fragrance always remains in the hand that gives the rose.”
Heda Bejar
The brilliant white light which illuminated everything is gone. Drifting into consciousness my eyes are a fixed on a handful of sparkling specks of brightness in the still night sky. Through the black silhouette of a sheltering oak tree I trace the pattern of dots as the big dipper emerges from my foggy mind like a series of pinholes punched into cool flat gray cardboard. The silence is consuming as there is no breeze to animate this solemn moment of passage. Against the dark tattered foliage is an intermittent yellow beacon of the first firefly of the summer. As it lazily drifts in and out of the arching boughs I slowly follow its assent from tree to tree in search of another firefly to complete the union. Where are the clouds of fireflies of my childhood which filled the meadows in a dancing choreography of abundance? Waves of shimmering sparks lost in the sultry heat of a summer dusk. No longer the ambassadors of nigh center stage beckoning us to take pause in the waning day, but now hiding in the dark shadows to few in number to reveal themselves in the ever expanding recesses.
I slowly realize that the pain is gone leaving a comforting sensation of warmth as I lie in a sanguine puddle of blood which trickles down my chest searching for earth from a small hole in my heart as I lie naked under the stars. The thick salty taste of blood in my mouth is familiar as it congeals on once hopeful lips. The chill of the evening floats over my skin but I do not shutter as numbness rebukes any sensation. For the moment all feelings and desires have been replaced with the ambivalence of simultaneous conflicted feelings toward life. I can not determine if I am grateful of survival or regretful of not perishing in the light. Appreciative the brutalizing chaos of toxic thunderstorms of rogue emotions have abated leaving an exhausted soul without the will to measure gain or loss. Lying motionless with no pain there is no need to discover the extent of disfiguring mental and physical wounds that invariability exist. Future disabilities have no relevance in this restful state of disconnection and isolation; there will be adequate time to hide the scars under a pall of normalcy and blinding routine. In the aftermath there is no one willing to help shoulder the suffering of loss so it will be hidden deep in a black hole where the demons play, where a past world of light and love are trapped by the inescapable gravity of darkness. Naked before the ebony curtain of closure, emotions have nowhere to cling, like a smooth granite surface the seeds of fragrant summer flowers can not germinate falling helpless to the ground. Seeds destine never to germinate in the fertile ground of aspiration. Seeds of dreams that once held the promise of a future of spiritual discovery while quenching flames of self denial, seeds of limitless possibilities will never support life.
Hanging on the pregnant dewy air is the charred scent of Pinyon long after the burning embers have given their warmth to the hungry land leaving only undetectable residual ash from once was a vibrant embodiment of life. Returning to dust its story of existence forgotten, its struggle for life unrewarded, the Pinyon will leave no mark other than meager trace elements it deposits on a cold mantle of soil which has no memory. Like the Pinyon my struggles, triumphs, loves, losses and memories will accompany me to the grave leaving the rest of the world knowing no different. In my foggy ravished mind the clarity of it all is so dreadfully apparent, nature does not care. Nature can not care favoring one action over another; it operates blindly to the equality all and the pretence of none. We all exist as a collection of our experiences, hopes and dreams wishing to find meaning in the random violence of indifference, but in the end even those fragile mental processions will be taken from us as the last struggling breath escapes our cold lips. The lesson we must learn is that tomorrow is not ours and can never be, so we must throw caution to the wind and capture every kiss, every embracing caress, and every opportunity to love regardless of the consequences of unknown probabilities. Endeavor to expose our soul to excesses of bliss and to debilitating suffering of pain, only then will fate assure us that maybe one of those fragile memories will fall to the ground to be cherished up a loved one before death erases them from the chronically apathetic record of existence.
Clutched in a drawn fist is a small charred image of yesterday which I can recognize without looking at. Its edges are worn and familiar where they are not burned. It is the only procession that remains from before the light. My fingers tremble as they caress the smiling figure of beauty incarnate as if the power in my touch could invigorate life into restoring an era of captivation. The wistful face in the photo did not make it to the other side with me, swept away by the storm unable to share in that which remains. An ocean of tears is beginning to ebb as I search my mind for chards of broken memories that I may have overlooked in the conflagration. Like fine sand these visions of the past will slowly seep from between my fingers as the erosion of time washes away what remains until it is uncertain if it ever existed at all. Nothing will prevent the once vibrant colors to fade until the indistinct stains evoke no meaning, seldom visited in the cluttered junkyard of abandon paths. The weight on my chest is heavy but is no longer crushing as I exhale deeply allowing my thoughts to wander aimlessly amidst scrapbook of the all too few fleeting encounters with happiness. Time permits perspective to evolve, but time can not be allowed to distance the feelings. Questions which were so abundant are unimportant as I attempt to heal in confines of desolation.
Fearful to move knowing that pain is still hidden below the placid surface of calm, there is little need to disturb this comforting void of solicitude. At the crossroads what lies before, the path remains highly uncertain as a forceful disregard for tomorrow is omnipresent. This mortal struggle to capture that which is impossible to capture, has exacted a horrific toll on the stamina required to move forward especially when a soft blanket of exhaustion is numbing the pain like a burning spoon of heroin raging through my veins. Lying so still that my own breathing keeps rhythm with a muted fragile heartbeat, I understand will need to stand erect and decide which path to choose. Aware that each new movement may reveal the prospect of searing pain hiding slightly below the façade of normalcy, it will be a long time of repeated motion before the agony will seek a new sanctuary to take root. Physical and emotional trauma can alter the foundation of perspective as new patterns reroute themselves around damaged pathways. Even in this relative state of inertia, the new patterns are emerging, some darkly foreboding while others are filled with possibility of restoration. Unfortunately those pathways continue to remain in the future and the future does not care. The future is as unattainable as the as restoration of the past, so I am investing little energy in the consequences of what is to be and instead be present in the moment with only that which remains.
“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”
Nelson Mandela (1918 - )
Nelson Mandela (1918 - )
