I wrote this one probably in my early 20s. I don’t remember much of what was happening in my life at the time apart from it being a period of intensity. For some reason the text is originally written all in capitals…
Beneath the earth the mother lay quiet. One day a small root grew close to her closed eyes. She woke and saw what her children had done while she slept. She roamed the land for twelve days. On the thirteenth day she gathered all her children together.
I gave you my breast, so you could wander strong upon your height. And when you became strong, I gave you freedom to live and find your soul. Yet the wind carried your spirit higher than the clouds and you cursed the ground beneath your feet. Did you forget I was here, always with you?
Now is the time to bring down your kites of fancy and rest in your mother’s arms. It is time to return to the place of the heart.
There were ten sons. Five were silent, the others pointed to the sun and questioned angrily:
What of our father? Do you not see him? Does he shine too bright for your eyes? Would you have us return to the darkness and forget the light of our god?
The oceans then erupted like a storm beneath them flooding the lands and carrying them all to the highest point in the world.
Then the mother spoke:
My dear children, can you not see the vision of your father is only the light that shines from your own eyes? When you see your god upon his heavenly tower, you only see the distance between yourselves. The further you reach, the further the light evades your grasp. For light is not substance, it cannot be touched by human hands. It cannot be caught by desire – for it is eternally free.
“What is eternally free?” asked the eldest son.
What is eternally free, my children is the blood of your blood, the breath of your breath. It was born before birth. It eternally creates and eternally destroys. Whenever you search for it, it is not there. You look and it evades your sight. Yet it is your sight, your longing, dreams and actions. It moves movement, yet is always still. It captures your imagination and frees your soul.
Soon the sun began to set as the earth softened her ground to aid the son’s decent to the lowest part of the world. It carried them like a sea of hands to the place of the heart the mother had spoken of.
“This is my garden” said the mother.
She then pointed to the darkest part of the garden.
Beyond that darkness is a place were the naked rest. It is the spirit of your father, the freedom of love – the place of your heart. Walk with faith and you will return to yourselves. Return now to what has always been. It is time.
All the sons, except the eldest walked towards the place the mother had shown them. When they had all disappeared into the deepest part of the garden, the eldest son spoke:
Although we buried the dead where you reserved us for life and abandoned the gift and cursed its origin, in quiet moments when the wind was still and the sweat of our pain ran dry, we remembered our mother and silently awaited your return
He held out his hand and spoke his last words:
Take my hand mother, follow me to our soul – our father invites us to the celebration.
Before I wrote the above, on the same page was this text:
From nothingness substance was born. Into form it became. Into nothing it returned.
Light remains where darkness is buried. She calls him by her name:
I am the ground,
I am the soul,
I am the first and the final.
I remember this short story was meant to be a sort of explanation of that text. Often I’d write these in a somewhat different state, I’d be otherwise. I imagine a lot of creativity is done in that frame of mind.