Vasalisa

Once there was, and once there was not, a lost girl.

She arrived first at her office every morning for she had been taught to be early was to be on time, and to be on time was to be late. She liked the quiet because she could hear herself think, and an open office didn’t lend itself to allowing her to stay in her thoughts for very long.

It was a miracle she had survived as long as she did, for without a compass she was like the wheat in wind: bendable to the whims of the seasons. That is to say, she put on whatever face or attitude those around her required of her to stay right-sized. Small. She bought and borrowed time while she experienced things that would become the pillars of lessons, ammunition needed to fuel her escape.

Until one day, or at the end of thousands of days, at the very right time, she had been tossed around like a tiny ship in a big dark sea for just the last time, (for being ‘right-sized’ is like being swallowed whole over and over again by things that do not feel right) she beckoned and bellowed to the sky, like Pi, stranded with Richard Parker, and with just as much sea salt flowing from her eyes to please, bring her home to herself.

She felt extreme fear in the deepest corners of her bones, yet chose to move into it anyway.

And with that choice, the great pink, sunny Mother peered down at her, smiling.

“Hello child, I’ve been waiting for you.”

The girl knew she had been preparing for this, for she had been living in the belly of the fish for too long. She had felt the Mother, seen her from afar but felt she was untouchable as she buried herself under layers of sludge.

The girl took her hands, her fingernails grown long from seclusion, and began to carve herself out of the fish.

The Mother watched, “Are you sure you’re brave enough?”

“Please Mother, help me find what I have lost. I feel the pull to the ways of the old and the ways of the new, I have things to understand and teach. I have work to do. I don’t know if I am brave enough but I am willing to lay my truth bare. Is that the same thing?”

At this question the Mother smiled and inside felt butterflies, “Yes. It is the same thing.”

And so the girl emerged from the fish, covered in fat and blood, panting and paddling, and swam.

This essay is part of a project where as often as we can, Nora Molinaro and I choose a prompt and then write an essay.

The prompt for this week was “Write about being brave” .