Let there be

In which someone listens

Being truly listened to is like standing on the edge of a sudden void, lit by thunderous sunlight and held in a silence so keen that moisture hesitates to evaporate. 

I fall into that void, cold fingers fluttering behind me like wings. 

And for the first time, I don’t curate my stories. I don’t shape tales to coax forth smiles, I don’t polish my thoughts to present their best side. And I don’t tuck the things that cut me out of sight. 

I keep tumbling, tears creeping into the corners of my eyes to burn at skin.

And then there far below, I see light blossom in the darkness.

Strands dance on lightning feet, orbiting each other before flying outward in a new direction. They hum with pleasure at the feel of the listening: words suddenly caught by an ear and held in the brain with the touch of gentle but curious neurons. 

Those strands weave as they go, forming a billowing net with edges that ever expand as words of understanding and tenderness wrap warm arms around my own. 

The void becomes a safe place to fall, the silvered net a constant assurance. 

All is let go.

8 Comments

  1. I hope constant praise isn’t something that makes you uncomfortable, because I keep feeling compelled to point out how much I love your work. While your voice is very much your own, your ability to blend poetry and prose reminds me of Peter S. Beagle.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    1. Happily constant praise is a delight to read – I’m so glad you connect with what I write (as I do with yours!). I’m also going to have to hunt out Peter S Beagle, I’ve not encountered any of his writing before and it sounds right up my street 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply

      1. He wrote The Last Unicorn, among others. The Last Unicorn was the book that taught me prose could be poetry. If you’re not a fan of oddball fantasy it may not be your cup of tea, but it’s a beautiful, bittersweet book with a lot of heart.

        Liked by 1 person

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