The Sinking
We often mistake the fist unclenching for true rest. But what happens when the whole arm drops? A dispatch from the old bus on the heavy shock of gravity, the quiet rebellion of deep rest, and why the soil never explains itself to the gardener. What will you stop carrying?
The Firth of Thames breathes in through the side window.
Salt. Sea breeze.
The sudden delight of sunshine’s heat.
I am pinned to the bed at the back of the old bus,
sunlight rests on the pillow.
The delicious heaviness of the woollen duvet holds me down like topsoil.
Weeks ago, I felt the fist beneath my skin unclench. I thought that was finally relaxation.
Today, the entire arm drops.
Muscle pours off the bone.
My whole being surrenders to the soil of the mattress.
It is the sudden, heavy shock of gravity reclaiming me.
My mind, which has driven this machine for a lifetime, stirs in the passenger seat.
Shall we rise? it asks.
No, says the body.
Why?
There is only silence.
The deep, thick silence of the soil refusing to explain itself to the gardener.
The soft animal of my body has finally found its weight.
Outside, Waiomu carries on. Neighbours nod across the green edge of the old washout.
Dogs walk the grass.
There is nothing out there that requires my speed.
When I finally stand, gravity strikes a quiet bargain.
I will use only what is strictly necessary to remain upright. Nothing more. No armour is to be fitted. No performance to play.
Just the bare physics of meeting the earth.
I step toward the larder.
The hands move, the master chef awakens, the vegetables surrender.
Inside,
deep inside,
the body remains completely still,
silent,
not bothered about the noise of the world.
Where in your life are you mistaking the fist unclenching for true rest? If you let gravity fully reclaim the vessel, what might your body finally have the strength to say "No" to?
from deep in the soil,
Ākāśadāka (AK).
