I AM . . .

I AM . . .
I sit, eyes closed, legs folded, in a darkened room, and begin my mantra.
“Who am I?” I repeat, over and over continuously. . .
My nose itches; I adjust my legs and roll my shoulders.
“Who am I?” I continue. . .
A vague feeling of unease comes over me. I focus on the ache in my shoulder blades, the stiff neck, the sharp pain in my knee, the throbbing ache in my legs.
“Who am I?” I continue. . .
Thoughts of work surface. I smile at the way Nick tactfully chastised Paula in the meeting today. I relive the moment we laughed about it in the lunchroom, this time saying much more witty and engaging things than I actually said. I snort . . . and start saying my mantra . . .
“Who am I?” I begin again . . .
I become dizzy and disoriented.
“Who am I?” I continue . . .
A box forms next to me, seen only through my closed eyes. It’s a suitcase. I gently pick up the meeting memory, and place it into the suitcase. I lovingly tell the memory I will come back for it, this is just for a little while.
I float, in the darkness, and wait for more memories to surface.
“Dang, I forgot the hominy at the grocery store….” I gently place the thought in the suitcase, and wait for more.
“Eeeaks! I need to feed the dogs.” goes into the suitcase next to the hominy, and the “what’s for dinner?”, and homework deadlines, and time to water the plants all follow.
A haunting melody sifts through. Where have I heard that before? Oh yeah, that’s Rachmaninoff! I gently place it beside the clutter in the suitcase, watching it writhe in ecstasy among the other distractions.
“Who am I?” I continue . . .
I soon find myself alone, in the dark. A sphere of dark. Warm dark. Soft dark. A thought wafts by, “Is this who I am? Darkness? Solitary? Alone?” I gently, carefully, place the thought in the suitcase and promise it I will come back for it soon. . .
I settle, once more, empty and comfortable with the emptiness, waiting for myself.
“Who am I?” I continue . . .
And I get a response. Out from the darkness I feel a presence. Love. I feel love. Gentle, soft, unpreposing, unassuming, unanythinging, love, just love, embodied by a soft, pink statuette. “Is this who I am?” I ask?
And I am answered by another presence. Death, decay, sorrow, and loss is embodied by a crone in a torn black dress.
I recoil! “Is this me? Which one is it? Are they both parts of me? How can this be?” I wonder . . . only to be distracted, once again, by a pinpoint light. A sprite flits by, laughing and giggling, chasing its own light in circles, drawing shapes in the darkness.
I settle down, once more, and consider what I have found. Could I be all three? Is there more? I sit, and wait, and as I wait, I feel the familiarity of these three presences. I am them. They are me.
I am love. All the caring, mothering, and nurturing that I have done. All the babies I’ve held, all the meals I’ve made, all the tears I’ve wiped, all the good that I have accomplished. I am love.
I am death. I am pain. I am loss and suffering. The pain I always carry with me is just an outward manifestation of my inner self. All things end. I end, someday, somehow. In this timeless place with past, present, and future all one, I realize the enormity of it . . . I am death, and this is ok.
I am a sprite. All jokes, teasing, silliness, and laughter. Every moment of every day little wisps of my sprite shine out. Tendrils of light spill into each moment. I am a sprite.
As I sit in the darkness, the three facets of myself entwine me. They don’t crowd me, they don’t compete. It seems as though they are used to working in tandem, taking turns. They are me. I am them.
I shudder at what I am about to do, but I have come this far, and am not going to stop and just accept illusions of who I am, no matter how deep they are. I gently coax these three into the suitcase. Love comes first, open and trusting. I gently tuck her away, and reach out for Death next. She comes easily as well, naturally leaving a stab of pain as she lies down beside Love. The sprite doesn’t want to go, however. We flit here, we flit there. We chase in circles and waves. I finally sit in lotus style in the darkness, waiting for my sprite to come to me. She does. She always needs an audience. She lies down, nose peeping out from under the Rachmaninoff strain, and I am stricken with an overwhelming feeling of loss.
“WHO AM I???!!!” My mantra becomes a shriek of panic.
Who am I without laughter? How will I grin through the pain without my sprite? How will I giggle through lovemaking without my sprite? I miss her the most. She is the one that holds the three of me together.
“WHO AM I?!!!!”
And then I let go. I float in the darkness, alone. I am without joy, without love, without pain. I just am.
“Who am I?” I gently nudge . . .
And the darkness begins to take shape. Golden light, marble smooth. I can see through the shape that forms. She is a giant! She is at least 12 feet tall, regal in her hard, golden stance. I am awed. I bow down before myself, unable to maintain eye contact.
I am a Goddess. I am all that is Holy. I am Truth. I am perfect!
I worship at the feet of this Golden Goddess of light. And slowly, I come to accept that this is me. This is who I am.
Slowly, reverently, I turn to the suitcase and gaze upon all my facets and illusions, some in repose, some still writhing, and I gather them up, one by one. Love, Pain, Laughter come first. Then the cares and concerns of my life, one by one.
I open my eyes, and find my eyes are filled with tears.
I know who I am, and I am awed.

By cindy
7/29/2010