I hold a pearl in my hands. It glows in radiant colors of white, pink and barely visible flecks of gold. People ask me what I hold, but I can’t tell them.
A few people know about the pearl. When they see it, the glow penetrates every cell and they walk away different, a little confused, smiling, laughing or crying. They are changed because the pearl lights up the core of them and they are made warm, like sitting in the lap of a much missed, yet unremembered mother.
Sometimes I try to tell people about the pearl. I search for words where none exist and come up empty, making shallow outlines instead of substance. I search for language they know. I say the pearl is like a rock, but they are afraid of rocks. They fear their force will smash the view from their window.
That’s alright, I tell them. It’s like a rock, but not really. I try again. I tell them about rubies and emeralds. I speak of their value, sparkle and light. Too expensive, they tell me, too much for my jewelry box to hold.
I don’t ever use the word pearl anymore. I gave up. The radiance of it’s glow defines me and it’s light has made rivers through my body where tiny veins used to be, yet, I am speechless.
I look at others over an unspoken canyon. They suffer in their sleeping state, their eyes barely open, their mouth yawning from fatigue. Yet, I am silent. It is mysteriously not my place to build the bridge across the abyss.
And yet, I long to help, all the time knowing what it takes from me to pull up a chair, open my hands and reveal the light.
Some come to look into the expanse, but most don’t, and that is just as well, as I am solitary and my hair is already white. It is those who glow from the experience that tell others to make the effort. Travel down country roads, they say, past fields of wheat and trees heavy with peaches. You’ll find a woman in a wooden rocking chair. She will let you in.
And so I wipe away the patterns of the day with a sponge, an eagle feather and a candle. I anchor myself in warm folds of earth, connect to the heavens and farther still, then open my door and embrace their courage. I offer tea and transformation.
The lids of my eyes drop closed. I inhale, exhale. Slowly, slowly pulling my hands from the pearl one finger at a time. Words travel the space between us, landing firmly in their heart. The soul opens to truth and forgotten memories made welcome.
They are coming out of a long sleep now. Remembering the truth of who and what they are. Humbled in appreciation, they bow before the altar of their soul. I am the source, they say in amazement. I have come home.
Shadows of white, pink and barely visible flecks of gold churn around and through their essence as they open the door to journey back into their lives.