Ice

October 10, 2009

Ice.

That’s how you’d describe her. If you’d known her earlier, you’d have called her something else. In her youngest days, you would have caller her mist. She was transparent, she was light, and she was free. You could slip into her presence and breathe in the essence of who she was. She welcomed you, settling upon you assuredly, calming your fears.

As she grew older, you would have called her a river. Raw, alive, and powerful; she sought out the hardest stones with the most jagged edges. Crashing against them, relentless, determined to smooth them. Beneath her will, they eroded – their nature changed.

She provoked restlessness. To be in her presence was to believe there must be more than mere existence. You felt sure that if somehow you could grasp her, you could see what she saw. You could be alive like she was. And yet she eluded you, beckoning you to follow. And when you tried, you were swept away.

But nobody asked what she really needed. Nobody sought what propelled her. We all assumed she just was. And when she changed, we didn’t understand how. The process of her transformation escaped us; none of us had been deep enough to see. And now, we couldn’t get past what our eyes beheld.

Ice: frozen solid. Layer upon layer of unbreakable coldness. The force that once compelled her has ceased. She doesn’t touch anyone now. And if you try to touch her you only reach a sharp, exterior layer. Her heart is deeply buried. It is hidden. She is untouchable and cold. She is closed and immovable. Yet she is alive. And she is in pain too severe to reveal.

She wishes a fire would find her. A blazing, reckless fire, resolved to melt her. To see whom she is even in her frozenness and unlock that reality again. To burn, refusing to be extinguished even if she melts. To give her purpose again, quenching the pain of the earth with the pain of her existence.

But was that really she? The thought now feels so foreign, like a dream you try to remember but it has already vanished. She gives up.

But not so far away, a fire burns. It is stirred with passion, fueled by hope, alive with possibility.

And one day, she will yield. One day, she will become.