Tangled Stone Heart

The bed was hard, the hallways were long, and they lived in my memory like bats in an attic. My skin and clothes had been drenched in fear. I had screamed, once, twice. I had clung to the door weeping like a broken child.

But it was not so now. I shooed the bats away, lifting my face to the sun.

I stood free, and alone, under the biggest sky I knew, in brand new skin. Little clouds drifted past. Please don’t flow so fast. With grass surrounding my feet, I felt whole again. I remembered who I was and filled my lungs with clean air.

Under my arm, my notebook rested, cooling off from the three hours of therapy where I scribbled notes and drew flowers when I was angry. There was a rubber-band around the covers to deter prying fingers; those who saw my drawings wanted to see more, asked, pleaded, which left me in a hard place of flattered and resentful. I felt like I was made of bark and did not move. Pretended to not hear them. No, they couldn’t see the thorny garden in this notebook. Would not let them, because these drawings came from such a dark place. When I was ready to share, it would be careful, methodical, out of peace and gentleness. Which was perhaps backwards for an artist, who often made works from pain and despair. But not I. Not this time. It would be a breech birth.

Under my arm the notebook jostled against my heavy chest as I walked from the long and low brick building built in the 1950’s out under the shade of trees. The building made of hard beds and long hallways, of nurses and psychiatrists. The parking lot and road fell away as I strode away from it. I saw a little stone foot-path to my left veer away, looping around, and I ignored it, stepping off. I wanted grass and trees and sky.

I walked until my ribs hurt and my hands were shaking. I hadn’t taken into account the anxiety, weakening my body. Sitting now, carefully laying down the notebook. I breathed and my ribs hurt less. The trunk of a sycamore cradled my back.

My eyes focused on the wind and the branches and movement all around, ignoring the tug at my brain to daydream. Staying present was so exhausting. If I didn’t watch every thought come and go like little sparrows flitting away at a bird bath, I would dissociate and wander off from my body and sit in cold places where no one could find me. It was not safe to do so. I had learned that recently, and my notebook recorded the bloody discovery like a black box after the crash.

I kept my eyes busy, and there was so much to look at. Spring was finally hitting, and leaf buds were mint colored and covered in soft down. I watched a ladybug clean her face on a dandelion, antennae waving wildly, tongue unfurling.

Craning my neck, there was a gentle rolling hill and a wide flat area of cement. Wide flat cement but no parking lot. No basketball goal. I couldn’t quite make it out. Left over from an earlier site, a floor to a forgotten building? A relic? I climbed to my feet, my stiff legs protesting. Limped for the first ten steps before my stride evened out again. Curiosity willed me onward when all my body wanted was rest.

The hill proved more difficult than it looked, and at the top, I stood like a conqueror, the muscles in my thighs and calves fluttering with exhaustion, the wet grass sticking to my sneakers as I set my first steps on the mysterious sun-bleached concrete.

It was a labyrinth.

Rather, a painted maze on a poured stone slab, and here, I circled to the beginning where I purposefully laid down my books and set out, head held high, as though I knew the steps, knew the secrets of this place, knew the heart of it. Shoes moved with intent, through the faded blue lines; round and round I wove.

But my confidence faltered as I walked, eyes darting ahead to follow where a future decision might lead me to a dead end. I felt unsure of my legs and my path and where I was going. I questioned what I was doing and whether this was a waste of time, feeling the suck and pull of chores, bills to be paid, things to be cleaned. Because fast-paced, rocky adulthood did not have room for moments to breathe, to play. To recover.

I closed my eyes a second and opened them again, seeing my sneakers and labyrinth in a new light.

This, was a tool. This, a place of healing. Keeping the body moving, keeping the mind from dissociating, keep the eyes awake and aware. As continued onward, walking again, I discovered its purpose. It was not left in the woods, forgotten. No, it was a treasure, designed to be wrapped in a place of quiet and solace, walled in by leaves instead of roads. It was a pearl on its oyster bed, submerged in the sea.

And I was old. I felt older than this earth, this tree, this sky. I felt my body ache, felt my scattered heart beats, uneven; felt the medication in my blood working to make me young again, failing.

In the center in the maze, I stopped. Unable to take any more.

I froze.

Breathed.

Watched the mint green buds sway in the wind.

And realized with a sudden start I had solved it. The point was the make it to middle.  And there, lay a straight path back out.

I emerged humble, and a little younger than before.  I stood free, and alone, under the biggest sky in brand new skin. With my books in hand, I left the comfort and shade of the woods and walked bare headed under the sun, the light hot on my dark hair, my thoughts warm and clear as I drove home.