Sunday, September 11, 2016

What is Real?

A piece from Writing Group last spring. I know, a late entry. But maybe it falls on the perfect day, the perfect moment... I believe that.



“What is real?” the rabbit asked the Skin Horse in the attic.

The Skin Horse, in his fatherly, whispery wisdom, explained to the rabbit that to be real is to be loved.

I am that rabbit.
That Skin Horse is my God.

The horse rocks forward and backward on that wooded, creaky, little attic floor with spider webs in the corners and rays of sunlight dancing in.

His voice is like sand: calm, steady, dry. My overly-eager attempt at a tiny taste of his wisdom almost knocks my weight forward. My hips move beyond the balls of my feet, and I inch toward the sun rays. 

Warmer.
Lighter.
Warmer.
Lighter.

My skin horse tells me that I can be real, that I can be loved.
Just the way that I am.

My thoughts run like train tracks.
Loud, fast, and wild. 

Yet my Skin Horse keeps rocking forward and backward.
Steady breathing, steady voice.

What if I am already real? I wonder.
What if I just never knew it to be true?

My shoulders sink in a little, my chin caves in toward my chest.
My train track keeps running. 
Faster and faster, until my heart rate matches my thoughts like a reflection in the mirror.
Loud, fast, and wild.

And then I hear it.
“Just be,” my Skin Horse tells me.
His three whisker-like wrinkles lying beside each eyelid thread out in all different directions, like streams leading into the ocean of his calm, peaceful face.
“Just sit. Accept it. You are real. Your thoughts, your stories, your tragedies, our human existence- all of it, real.”

The attic suddenly becomes a castle of clouds in the sky. 
I am lifted, weightless, calm.

My train has stopped. 
No more shaky fingers.
No more stress or racing thoughts, denying my ability to be loved.


Real is THIS moment, THIS breath.
Real is NOW.