My darling sister Siki sent me the prompt “I am from…” a few days ago.
After a few days of stirring, meditating, wandering around and dreaming, I sat down with hot coffee this morning and wrote some fresh words. Thank you Siki for including me in the exercise, such a lovely phrase to begin with!
in order to be part of
“I am from…” was heard quietly. Leaves rustling. Harp strings. Distant.
You turn to another reflection pool, similar in shades of indigo and gold as all of the others you’ve seen. Every one.
You never considered where they were from, too encompassed by being part of such subtle ripples. Rolling shapes that flatten faster than they are formed. The constant motion of water.
It’s what you never doubted belonging to.
“From” sounds unfamiliar; because to hail from anywhere means starting at the same place. From is, really then, just a reminder, a prompt to think about where it all started.
This time I began in his eyes, on foreign soil, when I was twenty-three. It’s not always easy to recall exactly how existence commenced. Usually each life sends a few recollections on how it might kick off.
Or how it may retire.
The soft sound, “I am from…” blows another whisper around your wrists, your hips, your shoulders, your neck, before evaporating back to where it became, and in its place: