Cellar

Harriet Churchill
Jul 20, 2017 · 1 min read

and now I can’t wait to get off the phone so my voice doesn’t betray me

I say quickly I need to see to a pot overboiling, and hang up

burst in tears.

The pot was turned down 20 minutes ago.

We’re talking about someone who doesn’t matter to me

who’s titles of woman in leadership Australian of the year, young entrepreneur

mean nothing to me, not really.

and do I think she has tears and struggles of her own?

Of course.

But I feel so rudderless, like I have turned away from those trophies

those falsehoods, those labels, that commit rough violences which separate ‘talent’ from everyone else

but turned into what is not a sunny rainbowed kitten bouncing serenity

but a black murk of darkness

like going into a cellar in an old house

suddenly and immediately cold, and damp, and a little terrifying

but thrilling too.

Most days, I prefer my cellar

know it is leading subterraneously to other hidden rooms of my heart

know it is absolutely a path I have to follow

know its twists are both delightful

and each step is painfully slow

— you can’t see beyond the black dark with only a candle.

But today I feel like my candle went out.

It’s still in my hand, I can feel the weight of it

but until I find my match

I am floors beneath the hum of noise in the rooms above

feeling my way in the dark.

)

    Harriet Churchill

    Written by

    I am a writer and love remembering to find the joy in small things.