The other Lady Lazarus

I know, Sylvia Plath took Lady Lazarus to speak for death. I will take her to speak about resurrection.

I’m in a thanking phase. A marvelling phase.

The sunlight on a tall poplar tree, its leaves like fish scales, green with a spell of rust, shivering in the mild wind, stark blue sky spreading behind. City streets with stately houses, luscious river glistening between sandy banks, red-brick and stone, chestnut-trees and short-trimmed lawns. Cafes with fine chocolate and caramel cake, delicate china and home-made jam to take away.

Hotel room like a small Victorian apartment, alcove and mirror and sitting corner by the window to glance out towards the river bank.

Bremen_Weser_from hotel room

Feeling the skin sweating in the sunlight as if it was mid-summer, knowing it is the outset of October all the same.

A-symmetrical moon clambering over the neighbour’s tree and slowly crossing the sky across my window. Stars multiplying as night advances. Late-night jet noiselessly leaving its whitish trail behind, like a boat in the seawater. Sleepless again, but none of the restlessness – just too awake with the wonder of this beauty to be able to sleep.

And then it comes home to me:

The troubles most people that I meet are torn apart with – I have experienced them all, they’re behind me. The broken hearts and the broken loves, the helplessness and captivity in a limiting story, the pain at the time hopelessly gone by, the loss, the disenchantment, the chase of shadows.

Now I am fulfilled by being healed and sound, and whatever beauty moment comes my way, it’s a bonus.

Lady Lazarus. Out of the dead came back to be more alive than ever had been.