When
you're on the edge of this world, your heart will speak of kith and
kin, and sing of the alive things you love. All the things you love.
Parents, spouses, siblings, lovers, friends, children, pets... Yes, these
things.
When
you're on the edge of this world, you will learn you love the wild creatures
that roam the forests and giants that swim the seas. The peppery scent of
the marigolds and the day-long cycle of the morning glories, the creaking grok
of the grackles and the warning bark of the seals, the gentle sway of the birch
trees, the ferns unfurling in the front yard. You will dream of the healing
caves beneath the weeping willows. You will fall in love with the sky above and
the stone below, and you will count their children on your fingers, like sheep,
as you burn.
At the
edge of decay, my natural world became built of white walls and bleating
machines, of yellow gowns and the smell of absence. I counted down to the end
of the things I loved, pulling their energy into the room with me, a balm
against isolation after the last frog was named...
The end
never came.
At the
finish of my list, gratitude and love expanded. There was more beyond the skin I
had drawn and I pushed at the edge. Any
heart that can feel infinite grief can also feel infinite joy.
I fell
in love with the way my finger bones curled into the muscle and tendon as
I struggled to make a fist and release it again. I fell in love with the
tiny atoms knitting themselves together to become cells in my body, to
multiply, to spread out and become skin.
Somewhere,
in my solitude on the rehab floor, I fell in love with my new body, as it was,
scars and all... and somewhere along the way, I finally fell in love with me.
When
you're on the edge of this world, your heart will speak of kith and kin, of the
alive things you love. When you return from the edge, you will walk with light,
and the things that you love and touch will not remain unaltered.
