Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Black (10/15/09)
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TITLE: HANDS | Previous Challenge Entry
By Cecile Hurst
10/21/09 -
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The world became silent. The blackness swallowed it. She was standing on air smooth like oil. She was not afraid inside this vacuum – boundless on all sides with neither top nor bottom. Then a glimmer of light that grew and flexed sprung, reaching to invisible points before it drew back into itself and took hold of her hand. They walked out of the emptiness together, into a field of sparkling grain spun golden by the rays of the sun. The hand was warm. The hand was safe. And she knew inexplicitly that she was loved – perfectly.
“You will open your eyes on the count of three,” ordered a commanding voice. “One…”
She pulled at her eye lids.
“Two…”
She struggled for sight in vain.
“Three.”
And her eyes flew open as if a lock had been popped, as if a heavy weight had suddenly risen. They helped her sit up and in doing so dislodged her stomach. Someone got a trashcan. Another pulled out tissues. The woman with the commanding voice explained she’d passed out during the exercise and wondered, with eyes gleaming, what question she had silently asked?
She didn’t answer. She had no time for them. She needed to get back to the blackness.
The hallways were stuffy and outside was too cool. She caught the bus and it was too bumpy, yet the kid with the toque and multiple wristbands seemed undisturbed with his reading. He was reading Shakespeare, which she thought a bit uppity. The bus lurched to a stop and she started to walk, but the walk took too long and made her quite jumpy. Finally arriving she unlatched the backdoor, threw her pack on the floor, and stumbled into her room, throwing herself unto the bed in a fit of tears which seemed to her to come much too fast and too quickly. She hadn’t realized just how shook-up she was.
“Hush now!” she scolded herself, starting the exercise again, trying to remember every step the guest hypnotist had gone through.
Concentrate on the rain.
But the rain had stopped, so she flicked on her fan.
Concentrate on the whirring.
Envision a house.
Walk inside.
Count the windows.
Walk up the staircase. There are thirteen stairs. One, two, three, four – envision your aura – five, six, seven, eight – envision your aura changing to a vibrant violet – nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen.
You see a chair in the middle of the room.
You walk to it. You sit down. It’s so comfortable.
You are permitted to ask one question of the Universe.
Ask it.
And she did. But, just as she thought, it didn’t work – her hand remained empty and her cheeks remained wet until finally her slumped over and fell into a fitful sleep.
She awoke to a gentle hand stroking back her hair. She knew it was her mother. She knew by the dip at the edge of her bed. She knew from the smell of lemon hand soap mixed with cream.
“Mom?” she croaked, “Why doesn’t God always answer? Why does He throw out hooks and then expect us to reel ourselves in?”
“Well, baby – I’m not… sure. Maybe it’s not so much that God doesn’t always answer, but that we don’t always hear.”
Silence.
“But what if you DO hear! And you get your hopes all up, and then He doesn’t do it again…”
The silence lengthened and she noticed there was no light glimmering through her window and the smell of dinner was just starting to wander down the hall. She stomach echoed back.
“I told you not to go to the class today.”
Her mother had called the school. NOT a good thing.
“God’s a sadist.”
Her mother laughed!
She felt her mouth crack open with shock. Where was the anger? She’d just uttered a blasphemy and her Christian mother, normally so quick to defend the all-powerful God, was laughing?
“No darling – God is not the sadist,” her mother smiled, “we are. We who are told we’re loved and don’t believe it. We who are cradled carefully in the arms of the Almighty and yet still persuade ourselves that under His loving watch He’s just waiting to drop us. We don’t allow ourselves to be loved baby. We talk ourselves into believing the worst. Yet He waits patiently.” Her mother went back to stroking her hair again.
She wrung her hands, pulling at her fingers. “God waits patiently…” she thought, feeling a hand on her soul.
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