Form. I can now respect it because I am at the point at which the slope of craft unfolds in a rolling wave – a lush Brisanchu knoll of light and deep shades. But before reaching this unexplored scenery, I had to die. And before that I had to know the God within and without were one. And yet, before even that struggle wrought by youthful temerity, desperate groping and inchoate spirituality in the seven-year crepuscular dome, all culminating in one terrifying moment in Hengyang; I had to love and trust a God I couldn’t even feel, but for the myriad wonders of the world, believed in. But I know not this to be the absolute order. I know it as the order in which I experienced it, and all anyone can ever reveal is what one knows for oneself.
And on the seventh day he rested
As I lay awake and confessed it:
Dragging my toes curled under to catch the wet blades of grass I outstretched my arms and looked skyward. A bird-call came out that exuded the concentrated disgust and elation I had felt warring in my gut for the whole stormy afternoon. I flashed a sincere smile to the neighbor looking out of his back window as a lightning bolt warned him to stay put but beckoned me to dance with the skies. He doesn’t see me but an apparition. I was struck mid-mad-twirl that I was normal, with no secrets, and professed my love for He-That-Giveth-Rains. I may never be accepted by my supposed brothers but would eternally be by my Brothers.
What is really causing the neighbor to watch me from a faraway and safe place? The question is rhetorical in that I don’t want to really know the black thing, repeating faux pas from a reckless past, because not even a healthy downpour can cleanse one of that cancer. We two are writing our proverbial novels and the only difference is that I know I’m making conjectures: one grand theory, i.e. a bunch of funny stuff, but nothing to bet even a dime on.
As the droplets increase in size and decrease in temperature, I pick up a shoe that a fox had its fun with that morning and pitch it onto the porch aiming for the screen-door catcher’s mitt. Whoever was up to bat struck out but I didn’t even puncture the screen. Soaking dress and I head into the dugout –a sizeable house I have to sit until the precious baby sells. I like the way God thinks. A vacant house plus a faithful transient girl equals the obvious solution. Why can’t my fellow countrymen, in their trusty language of logic and spoken charity, see things this simply? That’s another rhetorical question that I’ll leave for the time when I am warned and the thunderclaps summon my frightful neighbor to the stand.
© 2011, Amaya Engleking