Togetherfrom Essence to Performance

The Lianas

An early memory. 

An afternoon in the woods,
Jumping into the frail stream
That conquered the rocks.
The laughter of my friends,
Bursting against the stones
Where I couldn’t follow. 
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I seldom went to the woods.
The woods frightened me.
I stayed in my bedroom,
Kept safe by the brown contiguity of walls. 
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How extraordinary this was -
A word I learned at that age -
To remain in solitude. 

Up the trees, lianas dangled,
Tall and high,
Pointing to the heavens
Like telephones. 
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I came to watch them,
To steal a glimpse of angels
While shaitans crawled under my feet. 
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I loved watching the lianas sway,
The light sparkling at the edge
Of their unpolished crust. 

I longed to speak to the heavens,
And cross the fence of clouds.
Holding on to their vines
As I climbed the hairy twists. 

But back in my bedroom
The skies stayed silent.
The furniture loomed too large,
And the real anger was this:
I had not met God. 
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So, I returned to the woods,
Looked up at the trees
My friends’ laughter splashing into the stream,
Their joy propelling them. 

Sanctity poured from above.
A rain that drenched my head.
I started listening for words
But nothing came. 
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I could have stayed in my bedroom and mourned.
I could have come to the woods and played.
Still, I remained.
I felt foreign and odd. 
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Yet even then, a truth was forming:
I was meant to cling to the liana’s twists,
To swing closer to the whole.