probably isn’t so different from losing a part of your body.
I doubt many other students
know pain as well as you do.”
THE THIRD EYE
Dhanam akka says she
wants me to work on my part.
With her. Alone.
Akka leads me to the hall where we first met
and motions me to a chair.
She touches the red dot at the center of her forehead.
“Veda, do you know why we wear a potu?”
Her tone is gentle.
And the last thing I expected
was for her to ask me a question.
I’m too surprised to answer.
“The dot symbolizes your third eye,” she says.
“We wear it to remind ourselves
to look with knowledge and compassion,
as a true guru would.
When we use our inner eye,
we see with our minds and our hearts.
We see truth; we see beauty; we see Shiva.
Inside you, Veda, I sense the flame of extraordinary courage,
but not enough compassion.
If you must dance, the way I want my students to,
you must learn to be compassionate.
To yourself
and to others.
Acknowledge your pain.
Allow yourself to feel your loss.”
I don’t mind pushing my body to test my balance.
I don’t want to push my mind
back into that cold pit where the accident led me.
But if that’s what it takes to dance again,
I’ll make myself relive
the tree coming closer
the smells of burnt rubber, of vomit, of blood.
Screaming
silence.
Shivering, almost doubled over, I take a step
down into the space where light is an enemy
but not even darkness shrouds my terror.
Another step
into hospital corridors
winding like snakes.
I enter my writhing mass of fear, horror, desperation.
And stay there.
Tears streak down my cheeks.
Seen through tears my new foot seems softer,
my five stiff toes blurred at the edges.
Akka stretches her arms out toward me.
And I realize
she’s showing me I’m strong enough to reenter the pit of despair
because she wants to help me
climb all the way out.
DRAGONS
and
GECKOS
Govinda is waiting for me
on the empty stage under the banyan tree.