Was it you who sunk to your knees? But then that was not good enough. It was not far enough. It was not low enough. There was still an element of the body
left. It gave the idea that maybe you
could stand again if you needed to. So then
you pressed yourself to the floor? And
there you lay on the hardness and coldness, tears streaming from your eyes, salty
wet warmth falling to the unyielding floor, tiny splashes of you landing on an
ungrateful, unfeeling hardness. I cannot do this. I cannot.
I am done for this time. I can go
no further. I can go no lower. I am nothing.
And there was nothing.
Nothing that could help you. No words
that were spoken. No gentle tap on your
shoulder, no pat on your back. You laid
there—cold, empty, alone. There was
nothing.
And God damn it!
Why was there nothing? Why was
there never any help? Why was there no
hope? Why was the world so mechanical
and empty? Why?? Why now, when more than ever you needed there
to be someone or something out there? Couldn’t
just once—just once!—couldn’t there be an answer? Why not?
The tears finally ended.
Was it you on the floor who was completely empty? Your rage had left you icy and weak. You could swear that if you closed your eyes,
this time—this time—you would not open them again. But instead you arose, sore and tired with
swollen eyes and a head that felt as though it might be splitting. Good, let it split, then! But it did not. It was time to get up again.
I am a
machine. I am made of wood with moving
parts, oiled and painted and pretty, with strings and wheels and gears….
Outside it is cold, so very cold. It is January in Maine, second only to the
emptiness and coldness of February. But I
can wait for that. First I must deal
with January and her empty wolves who come to the door, boldly baring their
teeth and trying to enter my tiny house.
The doors do not seem strong enough to keep them out. Perhaps this is the year they will finally
breach the hull and devour me.
It is a paradox. I
said that I loved the cold, and so it is true.
But can you read love in that? Is there love in the coldness and the
emptiness and the hungry wolves? Is
there love for you who lay on the floor in emptiness with salty tears, waiting
for the sound or the touch that never seems to come?
We want the guarantee, the contract, the signature on the
dotted line. “You will give X amount of
your soul, and in return you shall receive this purse filled with jewels.” Let it be signed in blood! Who cares if it is? Who would argue with it? But it is not to be. There is no contract. No signature.
Not even any blood. There is
nothing.
So how do we go on in life in the emptiness that is the January
of our souls—which can occur at any time?
Shall I tell you the story of the seed?
But I have already done so, and here we find ourselves on the cold
floor, surrounded by our salty frozen tears again. What good did the seed do for us? Was it all for nothing?
Outside in the breaks between the icy storms, the Sun
rises weakly in the morning in an exquisite rosy glow that lasts only a few
minutes. And then the greyness swallows
it up again, swallows it whole like a shiny goldfish in a dirty pond, searching
for the last bit of oxygen.
But it was there. I
saw it, however briefly. If you tell the
truth, you know that you saw it, too. And
for all I know, that is what hope is, that is what the seed is. That is the gentle hand under your chin that
lifts your face upward ever so slightly and gives you the courage to look into eternity
and say, “I am.” That is the secret
voice that whispers in your mind—the one you have longed to hear for all of
time—“I am here. I have come for
you. I told you I would never leave
you. I have come. You are mine, and you are precious to
me. I have loved you since the beginning
of time. I will never abandon you. Oh, how I love you.”
The secret voice. The
secret hope. No contract. No signature.
No deal. No guarantee. You are on your own. But you are off the floor now and the tears
have abated. And somewhere under all the
ice outside, there are seeds. And who knows? Maybe there will be a spring after all and
they will grow again and you along with them?
Do you think there is any chance of it?
