Zaedah has finally put Peter down (for only a moment) and thus this piece was born. I wish only for your enjoyment...
Perfected In Blue
The prayer of the sky
Is for the increase
Of vastness-light.
Sri Chinmoy
.......
It's a big sky. And that used to mean something.
Sky-watching had once been so very uncomplicated. Where an expanse laid above her head, so rested a future that knew no confines. The yard was a solace where a girl might recline in the grass and stare upward toward all that she could be. One day. The playground swing brought her closer still, tiny feet arching near to the untouchable. Life was perfected in the blue, she believed, and fancied a day she would reach into that sky and disturb the clouds.
When she stepped out of childhood, the sky by no means lost its potency. In the drawing of breath under a crisp afternoon, that part of her which had avoided aging out of fantasy still trusted in a future promised by the blue.
She imagines sunsets in heaven and thinks the angels have no better view than she.
In recent days, the want of celestial intercession is strong and that slice of her mind still rooted in childish dreams thins. It is with the terrors of this new existence that she turns now to that ancient blue and seeks not daydreams but calm. While she never sends prayers to that loftiness overhead where deities clearly ignore her, she wonders if the sky doesn't pray. So many being scurrying beneath, surely the sky must think of them.
Of her.
As her innocence withers, she fears its opinion.
She has a theory, as woefully unlikely as those by whose beat she now marches. It came to her as all comforts do; in a moment of despair. She thinks that the tears of the sky are reincarnated, that they are the same ones she's witnessed throughout her life. It is a pattern; rain descending returns skyward through evaporation. She used to pity the molecules caught in a repetitive cycle. But the nature of that pattern is far superior to the one which has entrenched her.
That, in previous incarnations, the molecules might have touched her before lends hope that purity can yet be regained. After all, what goes down must go up. It's a cycle for which she sends her first adult prayer. The rising sun, in that moment, shows the first peek of blue behind the morning orange. And there is such peaceful vastness in the increasing light.
She no longer doubts the sky prays for her.