My Life in Stone

My Life in Stone

Everett Peacock

The breezes were again moving the fortunate bamboo and palms to sing that gentle tune I had grown so very fond of. Their love for me, frozen down here in the garden, was abundant beyond any measure of the sky I could see, or the rain I might feel. The dampness of the ground moved underneath like a slow river of life, kissing the feet of all those growing around me. My mind reached out and wrapped my appreciation around them like the blanket of warmth they had learned to embrace all these long, long years.

I had seen them all as babies, small and struggling to root their permanence into the inviting earth. Most of them had made it, like their predecessors before them and those yet before. I knew their families, their history, their music, and their eventualities. It was a nice comfortable march to eternity.

Our dreams were similar. Many here reached out to the light for sustenance or moved contently in a slow growth to openness. Some, like myself, remained very still, content in feeling the universe's rhythm without our own interruptions. Those who needed to grow, and fruit did so in their own beauty and wonder, and those who did not need to do so, simply breathed in the atmosphere, smiled and breathed out something new.

Our garden was so wonderful and as such it did attract outsiders.

We all watched the almost comical movements of the free-foots who moved among us like nervous insects ignoring the wealth overflowing the world, focused on some small detail or other. We all would listen deeply as they apprehensively worshiped the illusion of now. It was a little sad, but no more than anything else that passed by us on it's way to somewhere else. Those of us here, in the garden, sensed the sequences inside our beings, and knew, despite measuring it in any number of unfathomable ways, Time is not so linear. The cycles of rain and sun and growth move around and around, and each spin past us draws a kiss from our souls and a loving laugh from God.

One morning, actually this very morning, a free-foot, a child, entered our garden. She was chasing a moth who wanted to dance, but not with her. Laughing and giggling she moved over the worn bricks and mortar, through the bamboo and eventually over to my place. I starred at her, as I often must, and saw briefly a moment of recognition. Her eyes lighted upon me like the magic light of dawn and she stopped, her little arms swinging ever so slightly. The movement of air lifted the lightest of her hairs and swung them side to side as she tilted her gaze. Slowly, at some great effort I imagine, she approached even closer. Moving into the shadows of my protectors, she moved the leaves aside to let the light touch me. Her lips wanted to speak, but I knew she was fearful of my being one that might not hear. Standing for courage, she finally sat down, next to me, in the damp leaves, in the moss, in reach of my outstretched and unmoving hand. There her smile simmered and I could hear her mind wondering who would have done this to such a small being. Great generosity flowed through her eyes as she reached out to take my hand, her warm fingers following the curvature of my hand and arm, and moving to my eternal curls of hair.

Tears suddenly appeared on cheeks so pure and full. I heard her small voice speak ever so softly.

“Why are you here, all alone?”

My heart reached out toward this being of love and spoke within her own answers.

“I am not alone, but with you.”

She turned to look behind her, then back at my undaunted gaze.

“But, when I am gone, you will remain. Here, under these leaves of bamboo and vine.” She brushed aside an accumulation at my feet. Looking at me with some perseverance, she continued. “Are you afraid, at night?”

The wind brightened in response, perhaps to tell her not to ask, or to answer yes. But, I moved my heart toward her soft brows, furrowed in worry and spoke honestly.

“Nothing cares to harm me, in light or darkness. The sky protects us whether in rain, or heat or wind.”

She moved closer, to whisper into my patient ear.

“Is this place magical?” She pulled back to watch my response and listen.

The wind did suddenly stop, as if it too would catch me telling secrets. I could not answer.

After a moment, or more, she stood and watching me closely, announced to all those of us in the garden,

“It is fine to keep your secrets from a stranger, as I must appear to be.” Turning she looked all around, at the open sky, the ancient walls and the plants gathered here. “Magical beings must stick together, and be one amongst themselves.”

She walked a few feet away to a bench and sat down gently, still looking around as if to a crowd.

“My world is so different from yours. It moves far too fast, and often in the wrong direction.” Pulling her left foot up, she adjusted her shoe laces, though they needed no such attention.

“You there, far wall, what have you seen that must remain hidden from my mind?” Pointing gingerly with her arm, her fingers lightly curled toward the stacked stones and mortar. “Have you nothing to say? To a little girl no less?”

Standing again, she moved over to the large urn, filled with water and lilies. Leaning over it to catch her reflection somewhere between the flowers she whispered slowly.

“I know the many years you have stood guard here, catching the rain, nourishing these fragile blooms in your great chest. Have you any secrets you might tell me?” Remaining still as if to gather the faint answer she finally stood and walked back toward me.

Again, she sat close and with her hair dancing around her cherub smile, she spoke as if to a great teacher.

“My heart only wants to know what you must know, to feel the time you must have seen, to touch the earth in the way you must as it spins below the galaxies above.”

My dreams had never embraced a moment so full. I reached out with the entire breadth of my energy and spoke what little I knew.

“You, little one, you shall know, in your own life, the magic we all feel here, in our garden.”

She looked at me with an understanding glint in the reflection of morning light against her eyes and smiled.

“I shall come back to this garden one day, to marry.”

Standing, she pirouetted out among the ancients and came to rest a moment later.

“One day, I will stand amongst you all, yet again, and I shall understand your magic. I will share with you my own as well.”

To that, she marched out of sight and presumably back to where she had come from so many, many moments ago. For a while, I felt the stillness of eternity bear down upon me with a weight that nearly crushed my breath. I pushed back though, with the strength of persistence I had become so very adept at.

One morning, actually this very morning, she returned. Just like the bamboo, the vines and the palms, she had grown. Her beauty was magnificent amidst the gasps of stone and statue alike. Moving with the grace only a free-foot can master she immediately approached my place, and sat down beneath my guardians once again. Long flowing curls moved lightly in the breeze, backlit by the wonderful tropical sun. Her breath was even and the light in her eyes was more than I could possibly absorb.

“I have returned. Did you miss me young one?”

My thoughts were that she had not been gone too long, but then she was now an adult, a woman. I mustered the strength to overwhelm my surprise and told her, benignly,

“You are much more now.”

She looked at me quizzically but smiled politely.

“Tomorrow, I marry. I hope that you will give me your blessing,” turning to look around. “You have seen much sitting here where nothing escapes you.”

I thought she might be belittling my position in the garden, and waited for her eventual clarification, to which I was thankfully satisfied.

“You know,” she leaned in and whispered. “I dreamt of you many times, and think that my son will look like you.” Her smile was radiant at the mention of that. My heart, although now of stone, melted a little.

The bamboo moved in the wind enough to clap, perhaps in congratulations. I sat still, wondering. The growing things seem to always change, to do more, but alas to pass as well. My place, here under the leaves of a garden had been steady for many years.

She smiled again, rubbed my head and stood. Walking over to one of the ancient walls, she placed her hands against them as if to feel their heart beats. Somehow, I knew she would. Leaning her head slightly in, to touch the stones, I watched her lips move, as if in prayer. The clouds raced above and a wind burst through the garden, pulling her hair high into the air. She did not move, despite all around her doing so. Her lips still breathed magic words which I could not hear. Yet, I could feel them, moving through the stone walls, into the damp ground and through the distance to my own pedestal.

Her words spoke of Time. How she wanted her place in the stream to be happy, to be peaceful, but most of all to be fruitful. The living things always want to be fruitful; the coconuts, the vines, the bamboo. It seems so fragile, their fascination with fleeting things that come and eventually go.

Those of us, in the garden, that do not grow think not of such whims. We know that we remain despite the wind, the rain, the ages. Perhaps part of us moves away to join others like us, but nonetheless, our place remains steady.

Soon, she moved away from the wall, looked toward my place, and waved her hand slightly, as if to say something.

One morning, actually this very morning, she returned, with many others like her. They scurried about early on, but then settled into a pattern of music and marching that meant so much to her that I could sense her tears again. Tears not of fear or sorrow, but of knowing her place in the stream.

After a moment, when the crowds were gone, she did walk up to me.

“Here, my friend,” laying fresh flowers into my grasp. “A moment of life for you to hold, if only briefly.”

The flowers, a bouquet, fit into my outstretched hand perfectly. The bamboo did move appreciatively, signaling my very thoughts. She leaned in a little and kissed my stone curls, upon which I did feel a tear fall ever so hopefully upon me.

“Thank you,” she whispered, rising and moving away slowly, in the arms of another.

The stars moved across the sky a little more mysteriously that evening, but soon the days resumed their beautiful pattern. The garden resumed it's grace and the cycles continued their perpetuation. It wasn't very long before the fortunate bamboo and palms sang that gentle tune I would always remain so fond of.

July 11, 2009