Third Day

 

 

Misty rain falls.

I lift my face and open my mouth, letting coolness coat my tongue. Gray clouds huddle above me. As sparkles fall from their bellies, they twist in the wind, flash and tumble. Their voices are silken. The fragrance of damp stone and earth encircles me. I was desperately hungry earlier, but now my body seems to float above this shallow wash like a wisp of cloud.

I am not alone anymore.

Over the past two days, I have found a strange world of endless horizon, where silence is the voice of forgiveness. I talk with the plants, and they answer in lilting tones as warm as a buffalo’s undercoat.

“We hunt silence not to know freedom,” Dune once told me, “but to know relatedness. From all living things, something flows into you all the time, and flows from you into them. Silence teaches us our dependence. By doing so, it washes the face of our soul clean, so we can see it better.”

The walkingcane cactus beside me whispers as Wind Baby shakes its blossom-laden arms. I study the delicate purple petals. When raindrops pat their faces, they nod.

And I know what they are saying.

Just as the rain started last night, I had a Dream.

I stood at a walled-up doorway, knocking gently at first, then slamming my fists against the stones, demanding answers, wanting reasons, screaming: “You can’t hide! Let me in! Tell me the truth! Let me in!”

In a deafening roar the wall crashed down, the stones crumbling before my eyes. Dust boiled up, and for a moment I could not see. Then …

I stood stunned, my raised fists trembling.

Because I had been knocking from the inside.

*   *   *

I sit very still.

And look out across the drenched land. Light winks on the surface of each wet pebble. The cliffs below are wavering sheets of silver. Sinuous threads of muddy water shine in the drainages.

I stretch out on the damp stone and open my arms to the weeping heavens. These tears are immaculate. I want them to soak clear to my bones.