Chant Invades My Bath on a Friday in September 2012

Something big is building inside of me. I don’t know what it is. There’s an image that came into my head earlier, taking a bath, of chipping away at a stone. I impulsively kept repeating in my head: chip chip chip. And as I kept chipping, hitting, striking, new thoughts would come to the surface. Anger, chip, determination, chip. Images of myself over a stone in the middle of a forest. One that I didn’t want to be in. One that was dark and shifting into deeper consciousness. I don’t even want to be working at this. But something in my body keeps me going like a madman trying to get to water. The only hope of survival. It is silent and I am alone. Finally. Alone in a world made of me, this stone. That is it and I am bent over it. Keep working. Keep going deeper. What else do I have to live for? Something inside the rock will and can and must emerge. I imagine once I get to the right crack, right weakness in the formation, all will be revealed. Suddenly, I am not hitting this stone for myself but for all of those I love. And who I love becomes enormous. All consuming. I work at it because as one, singular, I am also everything and every question that has been asked and thrown into the void unanswered. This is why I am here. I see a flute tied around a goat’s throat. At first I think I might have to kill it, sacrifice it as in the old days when things had to be given up for wisdom. But not here. Not now. Not in my forest. I untie the red string and his throat opens into diamonds. My body is aflame with love. The stones in his throat I now use to chip the rock. Sharper, better tools to guide me. I think of my old journals. The quest of every child to find God in their hands. The time I first lay flat a butterfly on the concrete drive outside the cabin. My brother explaining the death a way to see creation. The tree stump that once was my oldest friend. I keep chipping. In the middle of it all the world keeps spinning. A planet aligns. My being is not my being. A jar of honey rests beside me, suddenly. As if to drink it. As if I drank it I’d know which leaves to gather for my own burial. I see that death is the greatest doorway I must wait for patiently. And that all I’ve ever known, the bits and pieces of the web still tangled in my hands, is God. And that is me which is creating God. So useless is my chipping but it keeps me connected so I keep sweating over the rock. I keep saying this prayer for you. It is for you. I am your keeper.

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One Response to Chant Invades My Bath on a Friday in September 2012

  1. Lis Weiss Horowitz says:

    You might love this Borges story today Shannon:


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