My heart is a buried wasteland. Pain, sorrow and utter despair. It knows nothing but anguish and strife. A battle within me ensues, like a tug-of-war within the very belly of my soul. I hear the battle cries and pleas, longing for rectitude, healing and even I daresay the almost impossible, peace. That “almost” gives me hope and I will cling to every last tattered shred of it with relentless clenched fists.
My heart is an abandoned temple. The hinges of the doors are torn off and the rich velvet tapestry of curtains lay dusty upon the ivory rods that held them in place. Each coloured weft interlaced back and forth in its own small pattern area by the artisan back in the days is now a faint shadow of its former glory. The light in my spirit is dimmed. The dome is caved in. Nothing is there to protect it from the bleaching rays of the sun by day and the acidic rain by night. A bell lays untouched in the square-chambered sanctuary. The tintinnabulation still resounds and bounces off the walls, a sign, I daresay is hope. I have memorised each sonorous pulse of the bell, like the very benediction that one implores before they meet their maker. My fingers gently tapping to the melody that rings within.
My heart is an overgrown garden. Wild with brambles, weeds and huge nettles everywhere. The bushes of roses are fiercesome in their armour of thorns, like a sword held up menacingly at anyone who dares touch it. Within holds, roses of the richest hue, like a battleground riddled with the blood of the slain. My heart is weary and battle-hardened. I see a soft bud springing forth apart from the thorns. A white Peony, it seems. Healing is present and it is here and now. Small and feeble, I nourish it with the freshest water I could find, my fingers gently caress the softness of the bud.
Now my heart is full, for there in the midst of it all, there was a glimpse of peace, a resounding hope and healing present. For these I am grateful and it is more than enough for me.
“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.”
― Marcel Proust
- White peony represents healing
- The hands go through a character arc from clenched fists to gentle caresses throughout the course of the short trip.