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.
