Historical Setting: The Great Skellig in an unknown time
The little monk surely notices my strength is returning. He sits by me, and with a serious face points to the hole in the middle of the dome that gives light and today, the place of release for the bird back into the sky. Then he starts to remove the branch. I spoke my objection, and Trinity heard me and caught the monk’s attention. I would like to say to the monk that I wish to keep that branch. But I fail in my attempt to rise up and demonstrate my need for the branch.
Now here I am lying flat. I haven’t even a feeble gesture for rising up. My clumsy attempt to draw myself up to standing only belies my helplessness in rising. And sitting requires my hands for balance, and in using my hands for balance I have no way to say I imagine pulling myself up with that branch in case a day comes when I actually can grasp onto the branch for rising to standing.
Seeing only my frailty, the monk offers his silent language in a more exaggerated and simplified sign and his smile to let me know that he was pleased that I am becoming more able. But rising will be many falls and fumbles and he will pity all my tries.
I think I should practice standing while he is away because his empathy pains him so much. And falling is always the first part of standing. Yet when one of us who is rescued actually can stand or stretch or fly his joy is so grand that I only wish he would see nothing but the successes and never share in the hurt for my struggles. So, the bird and the dog, and now I too, try to keep secret our failings.
At least he understands my wish to leave the branch in the midst, but I’m not sure if he believes in my plan to pull myself to my feet. For now, it stays here, crowding the hearth stone under the smoke hole. If only I ever did make use of it keeping it here would no longer seem a silly whim. So today, when the little monk is deep in his morning prayers, and this little round house is filled with holiness, I move as stealthily as any torn and healing person can move, to reach for the branch. Even my arms lack their one-time strength, and I can only wonder if wobbly legs will ever hold my weight, such as it is, again.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 