In knowing the despair, it leaves me. Like walking closer to waves in a desert, reaching the site, there’s nothing there. I am relieved. I can set down my pack of supplies. My canteen of memories. My tent of protective pleasures.
My own body becomes a fresh revelation to me. If I can shed layers of belongings and still live, can I not lose the flesh and breath that makes up this person, and somehow persist?
At meals, I hear things spoken that cause me to set my fork down on my plate. When one has a revelation, there seems no point in continuing to eat. Insights are eternal sustenance.
You call to me in the wind. In the way a baby smiles. “There’s so much rejoicing,” I hear you say. The sense of things lands inwardly, like some unseen nurse hooked me up to an IV of understanding.
I set down what I carry. My tent. My fork. My flesh. Now, I am free to do what is spoken from inside. I want to explain this freedom. But words won’t land for anyone without knowing the secret nurse. And you, understanding itself, require no explanation.