litost
“Above all, don’t fear difficult moments. The best comes from them.”
The girl had wandered outside the alcazar many times, though never this far. Her mother had a long black braid she wound tightly to a bun at her head—a dark crown with tiny pearl pins for jewels. The girl was reticent, often. She took to her mother and hung from her dress in those phases of grief.
Your too porous, her mother said. You let everything in and not enough out. You must learn to release what you will not hold. Flow like a river; this is the way of our people. Water runs clean and clear when the silt settles. The mud belongs at the bottom, not the surface.
I don’t want any mud! The girl cried, reaching for her mother’s hands. They were warm and small, such as her own. Her mother would take the girl's hands and massage each finger from knuckle to nail. She’d say, tracing the girl's fingertips across her skin. See how the skin puckers on my hands? As I age, I release more. You must purge to process correctly. The effort withers me. There must be mud; it provides fertile land for the plants to flourish and fowl to nest. Nature presents all aspects of the elements. Water, Earth, Wind, Fire, Ether; what you perceive is part of a more comprehensive function.
Whatever you witness is trivial and triumphant. It depends on the story you tell yourself.
The mother was rich with tales. She'd spent her youth on the road learning the wise ways of the land. Her grandmother taught her the ritual of fragrance to enliven the spirit—a simple gesture to recall curiosity and play. The mother's scent was clearwater, moss, peartree and sometimes, pine. The little girl took to the dark and tangy aroma of the pomegranate flower. Slightly earthly, primarily bitter.
The girl sat down on the bare earth when the walls had shrunk from sight. Like her, the footpath was cracked by the bitter sunlight. Too much of one thing pushed the other out of balance. The girl recalled her mother's words. She had whispered with wizened lips, having given too much away, her skin parished. Her vitality waned and waxed upon the girl. The stories she had not enough time to tell were with her people, and the girl must go to them.
Leave, you must go. When I am gone, there is nothing inside the walls that will grant you the knowledge to thrive. And survive, you must be brave. Though I had hoped we would be beyond that.
Beyond what, mother?
Her mother paused to cough into the pale linen. Dark blossoms she pressed into each palm. Clasping death in white sheets.
Ascension is the opposite of what we tolerate. I had hoped to see a period of celebration instead of mere survival. It is such a base need, the soul's will to endure. The spirit must be fed.
What does it need, mother?
Beauty. Truth. Compassion. Kindness. Detachment.
Where do I find such things?
You must go past the wall into the land. It will teach you. It will give what I no longer have. You must leave before I do. There will not be an opportunity if you wait. They will not want you to go.
I can't leave you!
You must, my darling. It was decided long before we knew it to be true.
The girl cried as the mother told her what to pack and how to find the path past the alcazar stone.
She could not hold the metal scissors to help her daughter cut off the braids—the symbol of sovereignty.
The disguise will keep you safe. Walk with your eyes straight forward, as if you are focused on something beyond the physical boundary. Keep your hands still at your sides. Tread softly, especially when moving fast. Do not upset the order of things—do you understand?
The girl nodded. Her mother was capable even when wedded with death.
When the moonlight slants across your bedding, you must go. My last wish is to see you free yourself of these rigid divisions. Wrap yourself in your cape now, careful not to show your new face to the guards. Keep your eyes low and steps small on the way back to your bedroom. Wipe your face; you cannot allow them to see your fears.
Kiss me goodbye, now and forever.
The girl had strolled back to her chamber with a palmful of pearls.
In the hot eye of the sun, midday when the savvy kept to the shade, the girl presented her mother's tears to the Earth.
Love is giving what we do not have.
Her mother's parting words.
Photo source.
