That Leaf of Light

Feature article commissioned by How To Sleep Faster, London, 2020.

That leaf of light. 

My rusty heels rest under you. Until the sun moves and you are gone.

My chest has a hum now, a different vibration. I feel a bulb shaped vase beginning in my chest in front of my lungs. Its neck reaches upwards following my throat to the opening of my mouth. My ears are buzzing to be included, so I draw handles on either side like butterfly wings or small elephant ears. Now there is something to hold on to. 

I think this sensation is the feeling of connection, the hum of someone/something making contact. 

Maybe the bulb shaped vase is a vessel. I should build it, form it with my hands out of clay. And wait for it to be filled.

Or pound it into stone, inverted back into the earth like the ancient ones I encountered in the palm oasis.

Or maybe I should go back to the familiar forest and lay down in that dry creek bed. 

Dig myself an arm shaped hole and fit myself inside. 

Then wait there. Rest and wait to be filled.

I can feel the hum all over now as I read these words back. Can you feel it? Can you find your own dry creek bed, lush palm mortar, vessel shaped in clay? 

Go now under your own leaf of light, rest until you feel the hum, rest until you know how to be filled.

Zoe Kreye 2020