I once had a Life.
And in it there were cream colored carpets, umbrellas, sweet coffees, vacations, white gowns, red roses and a box at the end of my driveway that received in it, each day, neatly typed letters with my name spelled almost correctly.
And one night – I can´t remember which – a letter arrived.
“From My Soul, To My Heart”….with my name spelled right.
In the morning, the letter was gone, but the message no less strong. It was an issue of emergency, requiring my most immediate attention. I packed up bag and Life — and set out on my mission.
Around the world we went, my Life and I.
Dancing on cream colored carpets of sand. Embracing the rain as we would the sun — arms spread wide, face upturned to the tide. Coffee from the bush – bitter, black and strong. Brief vacations “home”…hasty returns to the wild flower fields where Reality streaked red.
White gowns lost their allure — my attention caught by the whirlwind of white butterflies. Love – I found – was not of rings, but wings. And not confined to one, but ALL beings.
Dizzy in my flight, I did not see Time slip out the back door…
And one day, at the thud of an avocado on my tin roof, I woke up from reality.
Frantically, I dug through the depths of my bag, but my Life was not there. My heart raced down hallways disturbing dusty ideas that opened their doors, wiped the sleep from their eyes and replied, “no, we haven’t seen it (or you) for ages.”
Life. Was gone.
Something inside sunk deep in defeat. My hands, exhausted in their desperate grasp for the ungraspable, covered my face. My vision cupped in darkness, a single tear was shed. As I wiped the loss from closed eyes, the pain distored view was cleared.
And before me I saw again — for the first time — my hands.
Curved in question marks of their own, I unrolled my fists and opened an observation…
What did these hands really want? Have they, for one second, ached to swirl elegent mixed cocktails? Shake stiff handshakes with cold strangers? Wither under the brashness of cuticle clipping manicures? Race on keboards at the pace of 80 words per minute? Autograph the thousands of neatly typed letters that come in the box at the end of the driveway with my name spelled almost correctly?
Did these hands — calloused by labors of love, naked of paint but colored in a shade of the sun, scarred by escapees of the full moon campfire…Did these hands, that know the beat of the drum as it resonates with the pulse of passion, did they really LOSE Life? Or had they in fact, in their release of the shadow of another’s dream…..FOUND it?
“Seen through at last!” my hands sighed in guilt-ridden relief.
New life tingled in the tips of eager fingers as I picked up a pen, and approached the white slate to begin…
“In THIS Life…”
(To be continued…)