I am surrounded by a thorn hedge. I have drawn the hedge around myself. I cannot move my tenderness against the hedge without doing damage.
The sky comes down into the tangle in the form of cloud. Moisture condenses on the branches and thorns so that the whole thing glistens. Beautiful. The moisture gathers and falls like tears.
I get down on my knees and fold to rest my forehead on the ground, child’s pose, a posture of prayer. In this position I fill all the open space. I am a rock, a prayer rock in the heart of the briar patch.
How do I get rid of the hedge?
Is that the question? Maybe the question is: What is it like to be a stone of prayer in the heart of the briar patch?
The hedge closes over the top of me, closing off the standing space. I roll to face the sky. The thorn tears fall over me, washing the world to black.
Is this the answer? Is the hedge gone? Am I free?
No. I am not free. The hedge is not gone.
Outside the hedge, my true love pines for me. I can hear him keening.
He cannot pass in. I cannot pass out.
There are ants moving in procession along the branches. The ants come and go as they wish. The hedge is no barrier to them. For them it is a means of arrival.
The wind blows through the hedge. There are many ways to pass through, the sky, the ants, the wind all manage nicely.
I choose then to go. I move in and through. The thorns hold the tatters of my skin. I am wind. Wind loves an edge to blow across. We make music, the hedge and I.
Everything in me melts in joy.