Arise My Love

Arise My Love Sometimes his whole day was spent walking by the river, his one strong leg leading the way for its weaker counterpart. His limping way was measured and slow on the stones of the path – strong foot planted firmly – weak foot moving in a sudden burst to catch up. The weak foot never passed the strong foot. It needed it there, always in its sight, always ahead as a guide and never behind. With each step, the strong foot showed the weak foot what to do so that the weak foot didn’t need to remember. It could put all of its bit of strength into each movement, always in the present moment, always living in the struggle of now. The man lived in a hut set back from the river path. He woke each morning to the sunlight pouring over the distant hills and dancing across the river until it reached his shore and finally his door. Once he had risen for the day the man never yawned. He was busy every moment from the sun’s bright hello to the calming blue of the evening sky. First he had to dress himself. He wore slacks and a tunic made of linen that seemed to hang about him without actually touching his body. When he walked, it was as if he were moving through the clothes and the clothes just happened to be moving in the same direction at the same time. After dressing, the man ate a simple breakfast. Next he combed any errant crumbs from his beard as he peered into the small mirror that hung above his little table. The sight of the mirror hanging on the yellowing wall always brought a smile to the man’s weathered face. It was all he had of her. It was delicate like she had been, with graceful lines – pretty but not showy – and like her, it spent its life as an offering for others. Before stepping outside into the day the man would take his peaked cap from the hook by the door and place it precisely on his head. On this day the man’s hat was lying on the floor just inside the door. The man did not think twice before steadying himself on his strong leg and bending it slowly, bit by bit, letting his weak leg slide out to the side. Once he was down - strong leg bent - weak leg extended – he reached slowly for the hat and placed it on his head before attempting to rise. The act of picking up his hat meant that he might not reach the village today. Each day it seemed that he had just enough in him to make his way down the river and just enough time to sit and rest in the village square before making the journey home. Any extra expense of strength, any moments spent on an irregular task, and he might not have enough strength or time to complete his daily journey and that journey was his life. What was he if not the man who limped and sat in the village square and limped home again? Each moment lived knowing what he was to do and doing it. The man set out this day a little later than usual and a little more spent. He made his way down the river path – strong foot planted firmly – weak foot following behind. He could not try to go faster. He always moved in the fullness of his present capabilities. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. Something did not feel right in the man’s back and he bent his arms behind him, palms resting on either side of his spine, as if to push himself along. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. A light breeze blew off of the river and wrapped the man in the scent of sweet white blossoms that stirred over his head. He was usually acutely aware of his surroundings, only they were always just what they were, nothing else… but today, this smell, this softness, the sweetness… it had to be her perfume carried to him by an obliging wind. The man stopped on the path. He had never thought of her on his walks before. He always left her safe with his reflection in the mirror. Now he had brought her out into the world and the world was not her friend. He had not gone far. Perhaps he would return home. Strong foot – weak foot. As the man turned, the weak foot gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground. As he lay on the path, dust in his eyelashes - a stone beneath his cheek, he heard a bird burst in joyful song and it reminded him of her voice. His eyes fluttered, spilling dust, and the bird song grew stronger. The bird must be coming his way. The man managed to raise his head from the path. Just coming into sight on the river was the pointed bow of a boat hovering over the water. It moved swiftly, softly, until the boat’s passenger came into view. The man felt no surprise. He was not shocked to see her gliding on the water dressed in purple and holding a dove in her lap. Somewhere in the quiet corners of his heart he had expected her. This must be why he walked along the river every day. He had known that she would come for him, of course he did. She used no paddle or rudder to steer the boat. It slid like a sliver of the moon over the water and right to the shore. As she rose, the folds of her purple velvet fell like water down her body and she stood straight and tall. The dove flew easily to her shoulder where it perched and continued to sing. She walked along the boat and stepped softly to the shore. She was everything he remembered and everything he knew she had become. She moved like the boat, seeming to skim the surface of the land. She knelt before him and he lay his weary head in the velvet nest of her lap. She began to sing with the bird and it seemed to the man that their voices were one and different at the same time. He could not understand her words, but he knew what she said. “Arise my love and walk with me on silver water and frosted seas. Arise above the stones of earth, be born of light and give it birth. Arise my dear one, come now arise.” Then lightly, gently they stood together – the woman – the man – on the path by the riverside. She took his hand and led him to the doorway of his hut. The man lay on his bed, the woman seated at his side. She smoothed his brow with her delicate hand and the man watched her steadily. There was no disbelief in his gaze, rather his eyes showed contentment and his mouth peace. As he drifted off to sleep she brought her lips close to his ear and whispered “It will not be much longer. Soon we shall be together my love….” When he awoke with the dawn she had gone. That next day the man did not rise from his bed. On the second day he did. Once he had dressed himself in linen he moved towards a long undisturbed corner of his hut. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. He bent himself to open the wooden chest that was hidden in the shadows. Reaching in, the man drew out a roll of heavy fabric and a bundle that was wrapped in paper and tied up with string. He closed the chest and brought his treasures to the table. First he unrolled the fabric and turned it so that it curved over the edges of the table. He set his bowl on one end and his cup on the other to keep it flat. Next he untied the package with the string. Out spilled an assortment of brushes and blocks of pigment that were dry and cracking in some places. The man glanced up at the mirror on his wall and smiled. He stood and, taking the wooden bowl in his hand, he made his way to the river. After drawing water, the man moved slowly back to his table. Strong foot – weak foot – strong foot – weak foot. Once he was seated again the man began to paint. It had been years, but he was an old friend of the way the colors moved through the water on the canvas. Just as with any task, the man painted with economy, purpose and skill. On the third day a small crowd from the village arrived looking for the man. They had missed him in the village square and they came to see if all was well. Once the bravest among them had peeked in through the window and assured the others that the man was alive and seated at his table, the crowd pushed through the doorway and then craned their necks around each other to see the painting with which the man was occupied. The crowd praised the man’s talent. The canvas showed a series of pictures flowing in and out of each other. In each picture there was a woman dressed in purple. Along her journey she was joined by a man in a peaked cap. The last bit, that the man was still finishing, showed the woman in purple holding a dove on her lap. She was seated in the middle of a delicate and ancient boat that seemed to hover over the water of a river. Just from looking at the painting the crowd felt that they knew this woman and her history intimately. The man knew that before long he would be with his loved one but that first he had a job to do. When he had lost her, he locked her memory up inside himself and in the mirror on his wall and in the chest in the corner. The world had taken her away and so the world could not be trusted with her. But now that he had seen her, he understood. She was beyond the pain of this world and they could do her no harm. The floodgates he had so carefully constructed were now flung wide. There was so much to say. There were stories to be told, paintings to be made, tears to be cried and smiles to be shared. Bit by bit the man opened himself and shared the story of the woman he loved with all who would listen. And all who chose to listen were blessed. -Alia Williams