Victory. It has come late, I had not learnt
how to arrive, like the lily, at will,
the white figure, that pierces
the motionless eternity of earth,
pushing at clear, faint, form,
till the hour strikes: that clay,
with a white ray, or a spur of milk.
Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil,
on whose cliff the fair flower advances,
till the flag of its whiteness
defeats the contemptible deep of night,
and, from the motion of light,
spills itself in astonished seed.
Too often, the words “I’m sorry” pass my lips. I’m not making amends. I’m not apologizing for my wrongdoing. I’m apologizing for my visibility.
I’m sorry that you can see me, that I am visible, that I am a blip on your radar.
I’m sorry that I am a bother.
I am so deeply sure that I am a bother. This sets off two raging wars in my mind. One – I feel the need to be invisible and not a bother. To fight this invisibility, another side of me crows for a morsel of some affirmation. As a friend of mine puts it, I become an exhibitionist. And so there is a push-pull.
I had not learnt how to arrive, like the lily, at will. It’s not so easy for me. Instead, I am a jack-in-the-box. The handle winds, and winds, and winds. I stay invisible until suddenly, without warning, I pop out and shout to the world that I am deserving of praise, recognition, laughter.
I have not let the motion of light break me open yet to see that no – I am not a bother. I can shed the thick darkness of soil, without shame.
And that’s what it is, at the bottom of it all. Shame. For who I am.
But I will, at length, defeat the contemptible deep of night.