The Shimmering Delicacy Of All Things

And the beauty of words left unsaid

Credit: Jonathan Foster

1.

As the morning light seeps through the window I catch her profile slowly sketching itself into existence, head on the pillow, breathing the shallow rhythm of a deep sleeper. I hear the dog on the sofa adjusting his position, momentarily awoken by a breeze of consciousness. The kitchen clock lightly ticks through the wall, even at this first blush of the day, when fairies and elves run freely and the world is yet to press itself upon us. 

The window, left cautiously ajar throughout the night, allows a stream of icy air to harass the houseplants on the sill, but we, nestled together under our feathery quilts, lay snug and warm, breathing in the crisp wintry air. I must close the window shortly so the room will be warmer when she wakes. I’ll wait till I hear the dog is also deeply dreaming, then slip from the bed and ease the window back into its frame.   

Then I’ll gently pad through to the kitchen and set about making coffee with an expert dexterity gained through countless repetition, addicted as I am to the intoxicating acidic, earthy, fruit aroma of those volatile caramelised grounds. And then I’ll slide into the bed again and hold still if she stirs sightly, letting her sleep on.

This peaceful moment, as the day begins to topple into itself, is like floating through space, as serene as a final breath, as gentle as a songbird, like a feathered fist, hitting a windowpane, delicate yet momentous.

There is something between us, she and I, something that awoke one winter evening a long time ago, something that came to define us as it weaved itself through the rest of our days, drawing us closer and closer until we pooled like a lake. The fissures and fractals that streamed from the Big Bang and birthed the whole universe into existence still flood through us, this love, this consciousness, forever folding inwards and outwards, around and into itself, so that I do not know where I begin and where she ends. I have drowned myself in this love and I would do it again. Over and over and over again.

They say the dead beckon to the dying. They say we are enticed toward death by the guiding hand of those we love. Those we loved. Those we might love again because the bonds of love, they say, transcend all. I sip my coffee and contemplate the gossamer thin delicacy of life. The transience, the volatility, the seemingly perishable, meaningless nature of all things. And yet here is this love, like an embrace, like a home, like a sky. This underlying, elemental, essential love, holding everything together.

She breathes deeply now and she is a mountain range in the morning sun. She is a pair of wild eyes staring out from an ancient forest. She is the deep orange flesh of a peach so sweet to the tongue. She is a light dusting of panic. She is a raven tumbling and barrelling through the wind. She is a fierce and blinding sunlight. She is a sparkling sea drawing languid lines in the sand. She is an ear forever cocked, a head forever tilted, a hand forever open. If I were beckoned I would gladly follow through the shimmer, I would follow without hesitation, I would reach out and pull myself through.

Finally the alarm rings and she reaches to quell its pesky bleating and lies back down. I wait and after a time she murmurs and lets her legs fall from the bed and sits there for a while. I look at her tousled hair that she’s always displeased with, falling across her shoulder, as perfect as can be.

But none of these words need be uttered for it is only the words left unsaid that hold true meaning. The unspoken words that describe the beauty of her refrain. The unspoken words that describe the dignity of hesitating to fill the void with oneself. The giving of room for no more reason than room should be given to each and every one. And I feel abashed at my prattling bluster bundling up all this majesty in vain utterances that merely flutter away in the wind.

Soon she will head into her day, not to take part in the world but to be the world, not to be tempted by the ever gushing fountain of trivial tinsel, but instead to look each and every one squarely in the eye and see them in their struggle or their triumph or their defeat or their arrogance and treat them all with the same gracious manner, regardless of gain or favour, for that is what should be done.

Then, she stands and walks to the shower and the dog hops upon the bed and I sip my coffee and wonder how an oak tree and a fruit fly can live in the same flow of time.

2.

The powerful, being superstitious and barbaric, are blind to the ripe abundance of other people’s lives. So they destroy everything and replace all the bursting possibilities with their own narrow desires. And if they were ever to abandon their fury, after having curated such a wasteland, it’ll be impossible to recall what was before.

They storm across our sacred land moulded from river clay by the gods, and they congratulate each other on discovering virgin territory with no history, as they casually keep their gaze upon the future and swing their swords upon the flesh of all those yet to be known.

Maybe they believe the righteousness that billows from their great conference tables. Maybe they have second thoughts but fail to express them. Maybe they don’t have any thoughts at all as they burn the world to the ground. Maybe those of us with open eyes that stagger along in silent witness, choking on the smoke from fires lit in the past, deafened by the perpetual mechanical standing ovation that postures as discourse, watching the swords ceaselessly swinging back and forth and back and forth, maybe we should speak up? But who would listen?

She. She would listen.

I want to bury my wounded heart deep in the ground of every injustice although I have but one heart and the ground of wrongdoing is so vast. And I think of my burden in this world. I think of standing in the shoes of others into which all these prejudices are poured. I think about what it is to be a human, and yet not quite, but instead cast as a spectre haunting the present. And I wonder if the powerful are also beckoned through the shimmer by their loved ones. And I wonder if they would eagerly follow for the sake of love or if they would hold their ground because they do not feel the delicacy of all things but instead they fill the void with themselves and their oblivious stupid indignity.

And I feel like a mere fruit fly in an oak tree’s flow of time, drinking coffee in a cold room on a winter morning as my wife prepares to go out and soften the blow for those cast aside by this triumphant insanity. I feel like a witness to the burning core of love as she readies herself to go and pluck those in need from the river, to reach into the river and pull those in need back onto the bank and dry them off and look them in the eye and set them on their way.

And as she moves through this world with her gentle and furious quintessence, I find the strength to accept what is, because I see that there is still true love in this world. That she is true love. And I am humbled. And I am grateful. And I am forever ready if she ever beckons me to enter that great uncharted territory, without fear or trepidation.

Later in the evening, when she returns, I am already back and preparing dinner because her spirits compose themselves after a bite or two. And she tells me of her day and I sit quietly and listen as she unburdens herself. And I ask questions or prompt her to veer this way or that in her telling and I pour water into her glass when she needs watering. And then she asks me and I talk of my day and gently the talk pours us back into the lake as our trivial words alight like a flock of crows above us and we bask in the power and beauty of those words left unsaid.