I am underwater. It is black and deep. I lie horizontal just below the surface. There is struggle in my stillness. The surface of the water is covered in a kind of skin like black rubber. I cannot push through it. It burns against my efforts, suffocating.
I think I might as well sink down because I cannot rise up. There is friendliness in the depths. There are hands, lit blue, open like flowers, ready to receive me, to hold and honor me. Hands that lighten everything.
But I do not sink down. I stay pressed against the black skin of the surface, held fast there. It’s painful. I am coursed through with the pain of it. I cry out for help. “Please, please what medicine will relieve this suffering?”
The answer comes swift and certain, It’s not about you.
The words bring a gentleness, open a distance between myself and the suffering, a first breath. And then, You are not the suffering. You are the medicine.
Something in me clenching, lets go at that. I release hold of the pain. It releases hold of me. The tough resistence melts away and a light is re-kindled in me, a yellow flame in the arch of my rib cage.
I shift upright, my feet sinking down, touching bottom, received by the soft firm welcoming mud. My head rises high in the blue air, the light. The black water skirts out from my middle, just below the flame in me, carrying that light. I open my hands. I breathe.