A brief story, a fable without a moral as yet, a faerie tale without a happy ending. Yet?
There was a lady once, walled up in a tower of her own devising, given to wonder whether she had inadvertently made it a prison through neglect of doorways and welcome mats, given to wonder how she would find her way through the maze of damaged furnishings and broken dreams. For a long time she was content to simply wonder, to not try for escape; there came a day, however, when she realised that she must find a way out if she was to be happy again. She paced the corridors of her lonely tower, ranting at the idiocy with which she had constructed such and impregnable fortress, searching methodically for the way out. Friends noticed the activity, mused that perhaps she had woken from her long sleep, called up to her that she was wonderful and clever and beautiful, that they looked forward to being able to touch her when she discovered her freedom. She was spurred to greater effort, but still found herself hemmed in at every turn by long-dead truths and sorrows.
A man came to her, as if a gift, smart and beautiful and perfect for her moment: she did not question the wonder of him overmuch, but simply reveled in his sudden appearance at a time when she needed a reminder of magic. He found some breach in her walls, or perhaps, not knowing the magnitude of her castle, he simply failed to see the barricades: no matter, for he called for her to come out, and she found she could emerge with ease. She took the gift as offered, cherishing the lovely man and the knowledge of a way out he had brought; they played, lovers for the moment, knowing time was short and accepting the now of being together. Look, she cried to her friends: look what I have discovered! See the beauty of this Now? Am I not a lucky lady?
In time she realised she had not fully escaped her prison; shackles still lay about her ankles, she was yet gagged by fear and doubt, the lashes and flays she had kept herself safely damaged with still beckoned. She picked quietly at her chains, while he was with her to ease the loss - for the loss of even a long-held pain is still a loss - and worked to discard the implements of self-torture and the geas which would not allow her to speak of dangerous things. She was careful always - perhaps overly so; only he could say whether her respectful distance seemed cold - not to make demands on him, not to steal his time, not to intrude upon him, not to lay false clam: always she wanted his presence with her to be his willing gift, without the sour tastes of obligation to spoil his young wine. She fretted at times, bruising herself with the notion that she was merely a convenient resting place for him: he did, after all, need a base from which to make his forays, and he had found her in an agreeable location. Surely not, a more sensible self would say - tripping over unfinished projects, maneuvering around the careworn detritus of another life, negotiating her overgrown hedges of holly and thorn: this was not convenient, this was surely a distraction for a man of purpose. Quieted by these assurances, she could again take his days as a boon.
The guardians of her tower became agitated as they watched her become attached to the shining creature who had helped her find her way free. This was to invite pain and sorrow, was it not, to love one who would soon leave? No, she whispered to them: leave me be, I do not need your fears - this is not folly; it will end when it must end and I WILL experience every drop of it, I WILL relish every moment, every nuance of feeling. I will not hide from my love, I will not try to bind him with words - I will not bind myself with cries for promises: I will love as I may. The time came when she realised, though, that perhaps her thousand small ways of showing did not carry the message the words might, that perhaps the words might not be as easily misinterpreted as her small gestures. She decided to tell him how she treasured his gift of himself, how much she simply wanted to be in love until the time for parting came, how she would welcome the sorrow of leave-taking as just payment for the sweetness of loving now. She decided this; steeled herself to fight off her clamouring protectors and to risk his possible disinterest, to risk his telling her that she really was a mere convenience, that he did not share her involvement with the entity they had created by being together. Still shoring up her defences against his proving not to care, she fell apart when he casually told her he would be leaving as planned. Not because she was not prepare for goodbyes: she was. Not because she wished to demand more time from him: she did not - the prospect of meeting again was a lovely enticement, yes, but she would not cry for more than she had been freely given. She was hurt not by the prospect of his leaving, but the manner in which he told her - feeling raw and exposed by her own need to talk, she listened to his plans as if to a death sentence simply because he indicated no regret at the thought of leaving her and seemed to imply that she should feel none. The manner of his telling struck cold and hard where she was most vulnerable: her belief that there had been a kind of magic in his appearance and staying, her belief that such a gift as he gave must echo in his own life.
She was faced with the fact that she did, after all, have one demand of him, one need he must fill for her to remain happy about the time they had spent together and the time they had left - he must allow that he cared for her. A simple thing, expressing which was perhaps unnecessary in his eyes - she needed this now, though, to salve the wounds she had inflicted upon herself over the carelessness of his words, over their lack of words. Perhaps it was not so much unnecessary in his view as dangerous, as threatening an exposure for him as it was for her - perhaps he needed to hear how very much she cherished the gift of him, valued him, liked herself when he was there, perhaps he should know how beautiful and clever and funny and sweet she saw him, how wonderful a lover, how dear a friend: perhaps he needed to know, above all, that she would not cling and bind with caring; that what she would not bear herself she could not do to him.
We are free souls, you and I, she wanted to say. We may, if we wish, if we agree, swim together and glory in the moon's tides, we may dance the pattern of the stars to amuse ourselves, we may love wholly for the moment - only those who do not know they are free need tomorrows and promises. And only those who choose to play with another freed soul are at liberty to love, without the chains and sorrows of ordinary mortal interaction. Pretend you can see us as we truly are: make love with me; share a vision of us as shining, laughing souls embracing the Now with passionate glee; open your heart to me that I may ride your wild tides. Let us live this ordinary in that non-ordinary way: in your wonderful eyes and soft voice and choices to be with me let me see caring; make love with me while you are here. Allow me to feel that I have been half as sweet a surprise for you as you have been for me tell, me you will miss me just a little when we part, that you will think of me with a smile sometimes. No more. No less.
She wanted to say.
Her would-be protectors forbade.
I have ventured this frail limb of feeling she thought, and contentment will no longer suffice. Yet to become happy again with these moments takes such courage and trust: must saw away the branch on which rest and trust that this man cares enough for me to catch me up. If do not do this I make a lie of my beliefs make a bigger lie of my choices to be with him. And yet and yet such a risk! Can this silly bruised heart survive another fall?
Can it survive not taking the chance for a moment's joy?
The lady sits, awaiting the knight who freed her all unknowing. Will he allow her to take this chance, to risk herself? Or will he turn his back in denial and anger, reading demanding womanhood in every glance and swallow?
Will he allow himself to be important to her?
Remember flames, dear one, she whispers gently ...
if you fret about tomorrows
remember flames
let each moment flare, consuming
only that which dances
tinder-sharp and free
and consider
the life of fire, many hued
constant in its changing
needing only
now
to be
we may surround the thing
with barricades of iron
expectations
but fire is
fire, still
a risk to tamper carelessly
a boon to eyes and toes
every fire is a revel
a rampant waltz of passion
each flame a dancer lost in life
allowed its moment,
truly free
to die
fulfilled
and let the roulade carry on
and on
the chorus line of beauty
uncaring of their part
in creating spectacle
each knowing only
itself, its moment
its truth
roaring fires come to be
when each
untrammeled flame
is permitted
its full glory
coax each flame,
let each be
all
it can
don't douse or bank
against a loss of power
don't deny
your creation's chance for beauty
trust
each flame to warm you
allow each spark its flare of life
gift each moment
focus
the fire will last or not,
as it wills
we must feed the flames
and let them love.