It was a dusky warm evening, 14 falls ago… the kind that surges bliss. Hope seeped inside and swelled inside her. She walked believing that oblivion is strangely beautiful. He held the reins. She held the space between them. Burnt and scared, he didn’t let go of the reins. Those hands with power were inwardly curling to hide the hurts. When he did, she asked him to hold hers. Apprehensive and shaky, he did..unsurety in touch..She believed more in what it meant and grace was upon them. She covered his hands with all of hers. She held his with warmth of promise and protection of her love. She promised faith that she could give and asked him to try. Many moons later, She still places her hand over and under his curled ones. It blossomed a beautiful garden. She still places those hands of her under and over his to serve warmth, protection and promise faith but they are tired. They need to hold its own stem and hug it time and again to remind of the first share of the treasure, she willingly dwindles. She wishes he could uncurl and built his arms strong to lay over and under hers. She outstretches her arms sometimes hoping for a miracle. Hope and love play with the game of fleeting chase.
Somedays she closes them around her as though to defend herself from pain and hurt of lost hope. I am scared for she might never place them again over and under another arm.
She waits and waits. Incessantly and patiently. They might pass through that dusky evening again. She passed it quite often in her mind. She sees her glee and smiles at her hope. But they never pass that moment together again. She throws up her arms in anger. That evening, so insignificant..Her mind can’t fathom. Why else wouldn’t they visit it again? So this fall she prepares the hand. She asked the bees to buzz and birds to sing songs from the same evening. She isn’t following the discourse anymore. This path they never pass through again is turning into a monster for her. It haunts her. She refuses for the hands to go unnoticed. He comes and looks at hands and asks about the tray it holds.
She forgoes the hope and throws the tray and joins those arms together and prays. Prays to submerge them within her. She opens into abyss right in the middle of her heart and the hands submerge within, still joined. It all psychedelic here, colors are mixed-red, blues, browns and greens. Nothing is steady in this space, it is flowing but she noticed that her hands are still together. They are still joined. They seem like they can still bless but they have changed. Never again will they go over and under another hand.
My experience with my own Truth and spirituality has always led me to believe that what I was seeking couldn’t be seeked with ambition. The element to let go and let it take you with it, to trust it means letting go of your ‘egoic expectation of abilites.’ and flow with that I called in.
Within the shut doors of the house, the walls convulses,
” Humans alike bird recognize the virtue of experiences
Landscapes, smell of air, smiles,eye contact, styles of niche creation, the color of aspirations as versatile as the colour of doors- synchronised or mismatched.
Its the seeking to love but first to understand. Sure, it started somewhere with quest of power (Alexander) or SpiceTraders. Man is of instincts. He acts his way to redemption of soul
However, this quest for migration is real, it captures and pulls the soul like the magnetic field of Earth, guiding migratory bird to risk its life to live and feel its flight. It is innate that we risk contents of comfort for learning.”