I’m writing to you from down here.
Down here is where angels and infidels meet. There’s a party going on. Come on in.
There are mermaids, rock stars, and quirky townspeople. There’s a wild wind, a house by the sea, and a cat sleeping curled. There’s the scent of sandalwood and candlenuts somersaulting in the air.
It’s so easy to get lost down here. You’ll find me somewhere in between the whimsy of fairy lights and celtic swirls.
In the corner there’s a little box of keepsakes. Some blissful little trinkets. Some souvenirs of pain. In a medium sized box there’s photos. Jigsaw pieces of time. And the biggest box of all is crammed full of words. Raging and frothing about. A few have left the box. They are dancing like butterflies in the crispy breeze.
Dylan Thomas is on the couch stroking his boy-like face. He’s having a cup of tea with a cheerful lady. On the other side of the room Bono is crooning in soft Irish tones. Mother Teresa is kicking back with my Dad. Mum and my sisters are holding my babies. My dear husband is sweeping the floor. Meanwhile, Paul Klee is painting glorious abstract rose gardens on the walls. It’s busy down here.
It’s so busy I could be here for awhile. There’s still the needles, the scars, the dark nights. There’s still the healing, the miracles, the luminous lights. But it’s spinning so fast. I need to breathe it in before it fades away.
As I walk to the door I see her there. Calling me from thousands of years away. I haven’t seen her in awhile but she starts chatting like we’re old mates. She helps herself to a generous slice of fruitcake and smiles. Those angels at the door let me in.
I figure as much.
You know you’re named after me?
I know this but I hadn’t thought much about it until this moment.
She taps me on the shoulder. Can you see it? Can you see it now?
I don’t want to look. It’s terrifying to look.
You’re just like me. Sure, we’re different in a lot of ways. But you love justice. You’re a poet. You’re a warrior. You’re a truth-bearer.
That’s a lot to live up to. I turn to leave. But she continues.
It’s been with you all along. You can’t run away from it. It’s who you are.
Who I am? I thought this room was who I am.
I realise then the room is just dust particles. Holograms of mementos and memories. The room doesn’t define me.
I need to stop asking Who? I need to start asking Why?
I walk up the stairs and out the door.
Rich blood flows to every muscle.
I’m amazed at how strong I feel when I am being me.
I stretch as far as my wing span will go.
And step into the lucid light.