The River

© Unholy Vault Designs / Shutterstock.com

There is a woman on the bus, sitting on the front seat, as she does every work day morning. She is petite, pretty and of indeterminate age. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun. It is 7:00am and she is wearing false eyelashes. The eyelashes are thick and black, and resemble small furry animals balancing on her eyelids.

I wonder if she is a vampire. If recent television shows are to be believed, the first thing that happens when young women are turned to the blood-sucking side is that they sprout outrageous eyelashes and perky breasts. However, while her eyelashes would be the envy of any female vamp, her coat lies flat over her chest, and I conclude that she is not a vampire.

She must have very strong eyelids to support the weight of those lashes. Imagine what life must look like cluttered by furry blinkers. The only corollary I can surmise is standing on a grassy hillside and staring through a dark stand of pine trees, only ever seeing glimpses of the world beyond those inky sentinels. I don’t like the idea much.

So I close my eyes, and as so often happens, I see stars. I’m a little obsessed with stars. Twinkling above me, bringers of light and joy, here a red star, here a white star, there a blue one, and what is that ... A green star! The sky is a jewel box of treasures and I am addicted to the wealth it offers me.

As I breathe in these wonders, my cat James winds his slinky body around my calves, no doubt leaving a coat of black and white hair on my clothing. He is purring loudly, reminding me that I am his and he is mine. He is happy I am outside enjoying the night with him, and he will be happier still to snuggle up beside me when I sleep tonight.

His twining and turning and ceaseless thrumming remind me of a river I know very well. It is not a river of this world, but of another more magical realm. I learned of it through a technique for creating songs and poems, supposedly used by the ancient Celtic bards.

I lie on the ground and sink into a meditative state. I am in a green meadow, abundant with flowers of red, blue and purple hues. The air is filled with the sounds of cicadas and bees. A short distance away, I see the river, its banks fringed with reeds and water grasses. I walk across the meadow, then down a mossy bank, squat and let my hand drift in the flow of cool, sweet water. Images, ideas, music and words flood my senses, and I am compelled to create the song the river wants me to sing.

The bards did not write down what the river gave to them. They remembered every note, every word, and rose from their river journey with a fully realised creation. I have the luxury of typing.

And so I let the words come, like rats following a piper pied with imagination and meaning, their eyes bright with hope and faith that I will guide their course to a whole that is greater than its many parts.

Inspired by a prompt from Jill Badonsky in The Muse Is IN Writing Club.