A great, big THANK YOU! to my Beta-editor, Kibo Oto!
Updated March 2, 2019.
The light filtering through the canopy of cedars falls across my arms in such a way that each needle is projected onto the pale limbs. The stenciled pattern of shade and light, though appearing like ink on parchment, does not move with the canvas of my skin. I flip my arms over and then over again, mesmerized by the motifs playing across.
The sky between the disparate boughs is that bright shade of blue that can only be seen as summer fades and a cool wind stirs the chimes hanging from the eaves of our hermitage. Even this far into the woods I can hear them, so isolated are we. Leaves drift by, susurrating gently and joining the orchestra of the forest.
I take a deep breath.
Ikkyu was right. It does smell of autumn.
These are mine.
These moments stolen during brief spans of lucidity. They are not the muddied remembrances of a life I never actually lived; neither are they the flawed, patchwork impressions formed by my scrambling soul in competition with a mind alongside which it didn't grow.
These are mine.
Ikkyu is, too. I'm fairly certain. And our hermitage. I equally, if begrudgingly, treasure the tedious hours spent in meditation –though I would never admit as much to Ikkyu lest he gets it into his mind to have me do more.
The Cat, he is hers. And so are the calisthenics I do whenever I manage to rouse myself from my bedroll after another episode. Muscles slip over bones and limbs fall easily, gracefully, from one stretch to the next. It often feels more like a dance than an exercise; like knowing the lyrics to a song so well that you don't even have to think about what comes next.
All the while, the Cat watches with hooded eyes from the comfort of the porch –not quite lazily, but as if he has observed the routine for a long, long time. I know this to be the truth, not only because of the persistent shades of memory that coalesce each time I do them, but also in the flick of the Cat's tail and a narrowing of eyes whenever I miss a step or fail to transition seamlessly.
Pine needles poke into the soles of my feet and the sap which leaks between gaps in the rough bark leave a sticky residue on my palms.
The heavy beat of a bird in flight sounds overheard.
A crow's call, somewhere in the forest.
The wind blows again and the air is sweet and thick with scent.
The forest creaks.
Memories, unbidden, float to the surface. Red, red hair. A cave. Trees with leaves of glass. They attempt occlude this moment, take it from me.
No.
Wrists like wind chimes.
No.
I plant my feet, feel the chill in my toes. I scrape my fingers in the bark and watch the trees sway above. I breathe deep, like Ikkyu taught me.
These are mine.