Passing on a message . . . . .

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One night in the late 80’s I awoke, went to the kitchen table, sat down with a tablet and pencil and wrote these words without a pause.   It was as if the pencil wrote them.  I put the words into a drawer, went back to bed and fell into a deep sleep.  For a time I kept them to myself, and then I dared to show them to a few individuals.  Each of them reacted in a different way, but all in a positive way, as if the story were written just for them and carried a message.  I think it almost frightened me and I put the piece away.  Recently I discovered it again and I am sharing it here for whatever it means to you.  It would be interesting to see your comments.    – D. M.

   

 Precipice

I had been running for as long as I could remember.  If I knew, I had forgotten what I was running from and, more to the point, what I was running to. 

Running had become a way of life. It was something to do, and it certainly kept me busy. Other runners joined me now and then for a stretch and then peeled off in their own direction . . or dropped, exhausted, seeing we were going nowhere. It was a lonely business, running day and night, but somehow comfortable. 

My body had shaped itself into the constant poise of the mechanics – back straight, hips taut, chin into the wind. My legs and feet no longer ached, but tingled numbly on every impact, a concrete reminder regular as a clockbeat, to keep me asleep on the run.

 I could have gone on forever had the earth not ended. Looking out, I saw nothing before me but space. My toes, coming to the last inch of ground, dug in and prayed for balance while my frame convulsed against dead air and loss of motion.

Swaying there on the edge, my legs jerking and trembling to hold me back, I saw below me nothing but water. Far below this sudden cliff there was nothing but deep, blue water everywhere, without another shore in sight.

There was no solution. I could not retreat because I dared not lift a leg to take that one step backward. To pitch forward was the natural thing to do, and any movement I initiated would pitch me forward to my almost certain death.

It was a split second that lasted a thousand years. Through my mind raced scenes and memories . . running, running through the history of my soul.  It was a moment to meet my maker, and meet my maker I did. In every scene I saw and felt and knew and understood, at last, the one who had created it. I knew, and now I could no longer run. I knew, and still I could not move.

 “Help me!” I called to the wind and the Wise Ones. “Help me, oh help me! I want to live!”

 And with a force both gentle and swift the Wise Ones came, encircled me with loving arms – – and pushed.

                –   Doris Markland           

                        

 

 

 

     

 

 

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Debbie
    May 20, 2014 @ 19:54:10

    Dear Doris,
    I LOVE your story THANKS for sharing!

    Reply

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