Not Dying
It's a strange kind of limbo, chronic illness, not dying and yet not recovering. I've slipped into another world. When I visit the world of the well, which I rarely do, I find it a whirl of colour and light and sound all around me, making me dizzy and breathless. A ride that I need to get off. A world in frantic movement, rushing towards... What? Why?
I used to live there too, caught up in it and spun around to its hectic tempo. A dance it seemed impossible to resist, like a gale force wind. Most people are whisked past, autumn leaves, too fast to make eye-contact. A few offer brief glances, in their expression is something like regret, maybe concern, before they are flung into the air by the next gust.
I retreat, watch from a window, from a place that is steady, peaceful, slow. Grateful for the shelter of what might appear to be a prison or monastic cell, sentenced and confined by a profound lack of energy to this contemplative life.
winter storm
the ferry crossing
indefinitely postponed
Blithe Spirit Vol.35 No.1 February 2025
