Wednesday, May 22, 2013


I sat in the church, listening.

"Now let us join in a moment of sustained silence."

I bowed my head. That was my church. They didn't call it praying, because not every member believed in prayer. They didn't call it meditation because not every member believed in meditation. So they just called it Sustained Silence.

I liked it that way.

One Sunday, many weeks ago, the Rev led the Sustained Silence with a suggestion, and I continued on with it, every week. It made me feel whole.

I pictured my feet sending roots down into the earth through the floorboards, my toes spreading, lengthening, to taste the rich dirt beneath the building.

Through the ground, my body drew sustenance, and with it, I reached upward. My body grew taller, my skin hardening.

My arms spread and multiplied, reaching for the sun.

I pressed up against the peaked ceiling, before it parted before me. The ceiling crumbling, dust raining down, and then light. It didn't collapse; it held.

The great earth rumbled deep below me and held all things fast: myself, my growth, and the building, though the roof had split in two.

I grew and reached for the sky, leaves sprouting form my fingers, embracing the air.

I was beautiful.

The members left me there, not in awe, but in appreciation.

I was beautiful.