One Small Inch

Her head was hanging low as she sat on the very edge of the worn down peacock green sofa. She could feel the anxiety creeping upward from her toes, coming to suffocate her imagined peace, and the heart housed within her chest felt both heavy and loose. Loose, because she had no grasp of it; no understanding of how she was going to live in its shadow. Heavy, because all she could say and be was due to that heart.

She couldn't move. She couldn't swallow her feelings into oblivion. It was hard to even breath. She was stuck in a pond of quicksand or rather it felt like bricks were piled upon her head and she just couldn't move one small inch. All she needed to know in that moment was that she could move one small inch, just to prove to herself that she wasn't completely lost, as if in a room with no windows. However, her mind had many windows that could afford her the room to run free. But she wanted more than the kind of freedom that lived only in her mind. She wanted to be, free.

What would you like? How can I help? Is this good? Am I enough? Shall I smile? Shall I dance? If I stay, will you frown? If I leave, will you laugh? Is my face smooth enough? Are my legs strong enough? Is my heart to your liking? Is my soul spiritual enough? What would you like? How can I help?

As her head hung, she watched her motionless feet, they seemed to be pondering a direction to proceed in. But they didn't move, not one inch. She didn't move. She couldn't. And then another thought popped into her mind, and it wasn't a question, it was a command: You are not really like a flying beetle, zooming this way and that, direction-less. You are like a eucalyptus plant. You were once only tender, and now you are fragrant—lived and still and myriad and alive. Stand up. Hold your head up. Walk forward. And love—you.

Is this good? Am I enough?

Little steps...