The Serenity Room

I see the well manicured green rolling hills through tall windows. The crimson of twilight caresses the green creating a glorious ambiance. I look around the room and see it distinctly divided into small spaces by open walls, yet there is this perception of continuity. It is an empty room, no chairs, no furniture. I sit cross-legged by the window with most view. No sound, so serene. The silent voice question me, what matters most? Layers and layers of thoughts, of dreams, of calibrated expectations, of give and takes some calculated, some uncalculated overwhelm my mind. Now and here is the time of gentle meditation, of reflections, yet I am not in unity with peace. I delve in my living, I cannot rewind life, cannot fast forward, I can simply take a pause, now…this present…I can retrieve bits and pieces of moments, few words, few smiles, few feelings, silence and embrace these glimpses to relive. Sensing the tingling numbness I open my palm, and then the tears flow, uninhibited, as if there is no answer to the question that forms by what I see.
Flashback: "You want to hear a story?" Ma?a, my four year old, asks. Yes, yes, of course! I turn on my side facing her and she curls up close to my heart. She takes me to her land of golden sky, purple rivers, and green forests where the red dragon and yellow birds live. Together we roam her sunny wonderland of imagination. Together we share the unrestrained laugh, carefree and beautiful. Then as always, the inevitable question, how much do you love me mommy? As much as the sky, I reply. Sky! How? And I say, because no matter where you go, where you are, you can always look up and there it will be…forever! Tell me more, she insists. Well, even if we are not together, we still will look at the same sky, the same stars, the same moon. You see, the stars dance around the moon because she gives love which is infinite. As she travels sharing love around the world she ebbs, and then she becomes full moon again so she can keep giving…forever. Omnipresent, they are, they never go away! Thus, to her it made sense. Wrapped in this security blanket of love, finally content and tired, she falls asleep! A fairytale, yet I do love her with that much conviction. I see her peaceful face. Her large brown eyes always have this inquisitorial shine what's this life about! To me, her long curled lashes are the miracle of God. Please, please keep her safe, I quietly murmur as I kiss her forehead."
I look at the little box I am holding in my palm. I open the cover and look inside. And thus I read the words written on a small piece of paper that I take out from the oval shaped box, "They end your worries! These tiny people, dressed like the descendants of Mayan Indians in Guatemala, are here to help you. They are called worry people. According to the legend, you tell them your problems and put them under your pillow at night. They will do your worrying for you, so you sleep soundly and wake-up worry-free!" The box has five red and five green circles engraved on it and contains four half inch figurines, two men and two women. The Worry People with power to heal! The price is still on the box. I have carried this box some nine thousand miles. Several years ago I retrieved it while rummaging through my child's throw-away odds and ends and kept it with me ever since. I saw the box once before, under her pillow, when Maýa was seven. I was helping her to make-up the bed. Her eyes trusting and with full conviction she informed me it will take her worries away. Well then, I had said, we should leave it under the pillow!"
Today I look at it, sideways up and down, and close my palm once again, as if to keep it secure. If only I had asked what was worrying her then. Today, my belief blends with years-ago belief of hers and I wish with all my heart, if the legend be true then do take her worries away!
As I take a fearless account of forgotten yesterdays I have to admit my life is caught off-balance. Admission, they say is the first step towards healing. And I asked for whom? The answer I was given, 'self.' Healing from what? Loving my child? I also heard a tangle of words: let go, codependency, guilt, accountability, environment induced, be kind to self, get on with life, et cetera et cetera. Where in this equation of healing do the hopes of a being I have given birth fit in? She heals, I heal. How does this simple assertion lend itself to such detailed rendition? She needs to see her dreams for future come to fruition. In process I thus relocate me.
Flashback: "There we were, among friends, laughing and exchanging repartee, brought on by the spirits of good people, or perhaps it was the good spirits that led to enthralling conversations. The discourse grows louder, topics vary, celebrating achievements, the would-be could-be good life and what not! On such occasions Maýa, by self-reasoning, relegates herself to her room. Such gatherings are not hers. She creates her own entertainment, reading and drawing. She is gifted that way.
With passage of time, she came to being, exceptionally intelligent. Much travelled. With it friends and challenging peers multiplied. Dreams and hopes were added. Along the way, came the 'system' to lend a hand for correcting her wrong alcohol-binging ways, and from there voiceless crisis became a part of life. Today her tired eyes look into my soul. Please do not leave me, they say, I am not a 'bad' person! You all have given me the crutch called labeling and forced me to lean on it. Little by little you have taken my free spirit away in the name of confession and lessons to learn. I am simply left with one day at a time and no more. I am afraid to feel alive. Your system has broken my dreams, crushed my future, and converted me into something that I am not. I wish to be free, to run along the endless beach, live through many moons…"
My tears simply won't stop! How ironic that we give up our inherent right to the superficial monolith called legitimized power, the system, to empower ourselves! Thus becoming powerless, being able to say nothing, become removed. How does this contradiction work? What circumstances push one into oblivion? Where is the compassion? I look outside the window and realize it has been a while since the moon-lit night gently folded twilight into its embrace. As for me, today I am in a bubble. Perhaps tomorrow, again my hopes will multiply. Right now, my heart beats and life has to go on…

Ainon N writes short stories and poetry. She lives in the US .