Looking back he could see there were signs.  There was the aching pressure inside—a relentless pushing on the heart.  There was a deep, inexplicable urge to flail about and weep.  There was the uncontrollable moaning and the stinging and unapologetic contractions of his ability to notice anything else except the wound.

 

There was the seemingly insatiable hunger for the bizarre, the twisted, the perverse, and the terrifying.  Ingesting these somehow fueled the desire for light and more light—not a recommended daily-allowance diet–but it worked for him because there was grace and mercy woven through it all. Nothing else could transform such food into glorious nourishment.

 

There was the thirst for touch combined with a shockingly violent aversion to it.  Touches came and then the instantaneous flashing recoil—like a frightened snake.

 

And yet, through all of this, the most telling signs were the flowers, the moon, the fireflies, and the toads, the appearances of the praying mantis tilting her triangular shaped face, while she preened her front claws; there were the appearances of the slender, golden koi with their wise, whiskered faces and their flowing fins that trilled in the dark waters, where years before nothing stirred. 

 

So even though the darkness shrouded him like a silken cocoon, even though he felt himself dissolving into the liquid of grieving, even though parts of his heart hardened, he could sense the temporary nature of it all.  He could sense wings forming in his back—with little, unscratchable itches between his shoulder blades; he could sense signals of being able to move great pages of appendages that were not yet visible.

 

And there was the light, especially the light of the fireflies that made it alright for the wound to widen.  There was something in their dazzling flashes of brilliance—staccato signals of visible Morse Code, tiny celebratory fireworks, little bits and pieces of some unseen bonfire rising into the summer night. 

 

And the darkness–sweet, blessed darkness that made it all so.

 

He came to love the darkness.  The darkness held such wonder.

 

Like the time he drove down highway 179 in Sedona at midnight for the first time.  He did not know he was surrounded by mountains.  All he could see was the barely-lit road ahead, and all he could think of was: “Where am I going? Where is the exit?”

 

He did not know he was being watched by the gentlest of souls, towering and majestic, yet bending towards him.  He did not know they were there, and yet, sheltering him from other storms they stood, and to keep up with him, they picked up their ancient skirts and cloaks and followed him with silent, graceful movements.  There were no earthquakes or avalanches—just mountains that both stood and danced around him in the darkness, guiding and keeping him from harm.  They were more than sentinels; they were angels of the greatest tenderness.

 

And so when he watched the fireflies rising from the cemetery grass, like souls dancing in the night, when he saw the fireflies garland the tops of the trees, he knew the darkness inside was good, provided he never lose his ability to sense the light. 

 

For this darkness held the seeds of light.  This darkness nursed beings of light.  This darkness WAS the light in its first flush and flower.

 

And that gift of being able to sense the light was given to him by countless angels along the way.  They would meet him in unexpected places, cup their hands together and pass the light to him—soul to soul, cupped hands to cupped hands spreading the wonder of the light.

 

So when the water broke and the tears came in a sudden flood, and the contractions curled him up on the floor, and when the pain—that deep, relentless pain flashed and exploded within him—somewhere inside he held on to the great and terrible hands of the mountains, somehow he held the light of the fireflies in his voice, and starlight in his tears…and then…

 

…almost without realizing it, almost without a sound

the child was born.

stillness bloomed.

 A calmness that walked the borders of bliss thrummed the air like a harp of gladness.

And the singing began.  The words flowed—images and silver threads, weaving it all together into a living, organic tapestry of such grand fluidity that he could only ease back and watch in wonder.

And as he listened to the child singing and speaking the Word, the child suddenly turned and faced him, and held out his hand saying: “Rise, dear fathermother, we are one and we must go—adventure beckons.  For there are many others in the throes of labor, and we must find them and midwife them into the world.”

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog