pudding

with camatkāra whipped cream on top

I thumb through my closet.

Mermaid tail. Hmm, not today. I don’t want to get my hair wet.
Angel wings. Of course, I smile fondly, but I don’t want to fly today either.
A bull horned headdress. It uncannily looks like Isis’ headpiece, doesn’t it? Too heavy. I already have a headache. So nope.
A slip made of reptilian scales. Oooh, this is pretty. Dragon scales, right? I’m not sure. It was a gift. To hold in the fire while going out and about. I chuckle darkly, more like masking...

I have nothing to wear, I sigh, falling back-first on the bed. I look up toward the roof of my room. My caretaker had them build a window-dome so I can watch the passing weather. It’s blue skies with fluffy clouds right now. No. I close my eyes, open them again. Midnight black with copper speckles.

I roll over to my side. I sigh again. What am I even dressing for, I ask myself. I have unlimited freedom, and yet I feel like a bird in a very small cage.

I reach for my most trusted state in moments like this. If I could be anywhere, anything, what would I choose? I close my eyes one more time, and I allow my atoms to loosen. They give each other space, breathing room. I am now a diaphanous sheet. A ghost? The technical term doesn’t matter. What matters is where I can go.

Ok, let’s move.

I float to an inner chamber within me. White, curtained walls — what I imagine the famous Hebraic tabernacle to have looked like — and just a chair. Well, a throne. On that throne sits the heart.

Is this me? I ask, this is me... right?

She looks quite stern. Is she mad?

I glide towards her, and curl up at her feet. I reach for one of her hands and place both of mine on it.

“Hey, am I doing things right?” my tone of voice level, eyes beseeching.

She turns her head. Damn, if looks could kill. Why is she frowning? Perhaps the wrong question.

“Is there something I could be doing better?”

Her brows rise. Her expression of scorn breaks into one of aching. It makes me want to cry. But oh, that’s a change. Let’s keep asking.

“Should I meditate more? Build useless things in the physical world, destroy them, then build them up again? Like Sisyphus,” I trail on, running inventory on all the things I have done and I assume I should, or could, do again.

I remember where I am. My gaze goes back to her. Her eyes pin me back. Have you ever seen that picture of Jesus whose gaze looks like it’s going straight into your soul? Yes, like that.

I am getting frustrated. Is she mute?!

“Speak!!” I wail.

She slides her hand out from under mine. She brings it to her throat, the lightest of touches. Her eyes are downcast. She tries to clear her throat. Not much noise comes out.

I get up and place the back of my hand on her forehead. Oh no, she’s feverish. I sit on the armrest for I have no sense of space with those I love. I have a feeling she’ll be able to muster speech soon so I remain silent. I caress her dark, long hair. I slip a tendril behind her ear.

She clears her throat once more, then in a croak, “I don’t want to be in a tabernacle. I don’t want to sit on a throne.”

“All right,” I venture softly, “then what do you want to be in? Err... be on?” I append my question to include more than one possibility.

She sinks into the chair, and curves towards me. I curve towards her. I rest my head on hers. “I am not sure I want to be in, or on, anything,” she says. “I just want to be.”

I get it, I truly do. Yet my mind goes at max speed trying to make it translatable to my realm. What costume do I wear for that? What about the bills? Or my relationships? My plan? I know what being means, but what does it look like? And there’s a more pressing question, or rather matter of reality. I frankly don’t think my physical experience is enough. It’s almost as if I’ve tried it all, the good and the gnarly and everything in between, and I am what? Bored? Bored. A bird in a little cage.

I think a bit more. My head throbs. What haven’t I tried that could give us different results? I know my destination — that is firm. Let’s try this. Mind? Off, thank you. Take a little break. Now, what do I desire? I listen to my body, translating sensation as best I can into directive.

“I have an idea,” I finally say. “Your turn to come to me.” We both stand up and she dissolves into a sphere of glowing magma. She moves towards my sternum, presses in, and settles into the place she loves being most. Me. Tabernacle, throne, and whatever else — all in a very specific vessel of flesh.

Back in my room, not quite the ghost anymore, I scurry towards the closet once again. I yank and push and prod till I find it. I take out a box that has the silliest, most joyful stickers on it. Why are these cat and bunny in these stickers so freaking happy? Is the cream pudding that good? I laugh.

I open the box and take out a clearly beloved, worn-out shroud. “Hello, old friend,” I say. I place it on my lap, and take out the tattered leather sandals. Mileage as high as a leatherback’s. “You’ve been with me almost everywhere, huh.” I put them next to me on the floor.

Lastly I take out an envelope. I open it. My curiosity mounts, my heart’s beat quickens — a good sign.

On the back of a ticket, in starlight ink:
You are ready. Have been for a while. Next ferry leaves at 06:00. Admission for one. Trip will be gentle and steady. Bring a book. Actually, a journal may be better. Write your own story, then read it over and over again. Bon voyage xo

I wiggle in place, as joyful as the Happy March stickers on that box. Maybe the cream pudding is that good!

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