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.
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.