Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Time, you’ve discovered, is an illusion; the past a blur, and happiness is as slippery as a river rock. And who dares to boast of their sure footedness, for feet do slip, and those slips may provide a nasty fall. Or is the fall nasty at all? Dare I judge my fall, or your fall, or any fall, for falls are falls and common to men—and ladies too. So lift your pretty skirts as you step from stone to stone with water rushing around, swirling with elegance like hand-blown glass, a blurry window to the bottom.
Lift them higher, lest you lose your step, and your white fluffy dressings get tangled around your delicate ankles. Step carefully, for the icy water moves with determination, and if you’re not careful you could be washed downstream—lost forever.
What’s this? You’re lifting your dress over your head, letting it fall to the ground—if a dress falls in the forest….
Your undergarments too? I see you’ve finally committed.
Your wintery skin is not used to being exposed to the glaring sun. Your toes grip at the rocks like greedy fingers, seeking surety and balance.
The river is restless and wide; but you keep your composure, for you see beyond the tumultuous waters, to the other side. Who is it that tempts you across the dangerous flow, for Jesus you’re not, but still you defy propriety and prudence, by persisting—moving along carefully, emboldened by the spring air. Your body prickles with goose flesh, yet you’re neither cold nor afraid; you’re drunk with determination and desire.
You’ve decided that your teachers were wrong. They said that you couldn’t do it, or shouldn’t do it—you can’t remember which it was, but what do they know anyway, for they sit and teach, eating donuts in the break-room, and marking red all over your soul.
They know nothing of true life, of walking along the stones in the springtime—naked. They know nothing of your desires, your perfumed flesh, now musky from effort, lips parted and glistening with intent. No, they know nothing of risk, and passion, for their folded arms prevent their hearts from admitting such hungers.
You close your eyes, feeling bolder still, stretching a blind toe forward, and searching the air for a sure place to land. You feel the thrill of not knowing, and must stop mid-air so you’ll never forget. You smile as you find the answer, that rock in the water whose smooth surface feels like cold velvet.
Each step is a pleasure when one pays attention to the moment.
No one can see you, or hear you—or judge, for this is your dance across the river; these are the stepping-stones to your journey. Your nakedness means nothing—and everything. You are like the trees and the river, you’re raw and free, and for once your nakedness doesn’t frighten you.
Just a few more steps until you reach the one who stirs your soul like a primitive witch’s brew. He is there, waiting, playing with a sprig of tender green as he watches you move closer. He’s smiling now, and rising—for you are near to the shore. Reaching out to you, he catches you as you lose your footing on that last wobbly stone. Together you fall backwards onto a bed of new grass, a lovers’ nest, startling and moist— together at last, like music and movement.
He feeds you ripe fruit, taking his time, admiring your beauty, the strength of your shoulders and the way they curve downward like steep white cliffs. He imagines himself diving from those cliffs, finally losing himself in your depths. You close your eyes, surrendering to his lavish affections. Never before have you felt so worthy and secure. Opening your eyes, you study his face; the sunlight dances in his eyes. He is deity.
You’ve no intention of leaving. Ever. Together you complete what was left undone—that thing that must be—the truest thing of all.
Posted by Leah Griffith at 2:04 PM