'The Battle of the Soul' was written as a testament to the strength of the spirit. Often the spirit is deeply buried and does not reveal itself until challenged in a "do or die" situation.
Battle of
the Soul
R-a-g-e. Bottled up deep
inside for so long began to erupt.
Unstoppable, unbridled, with a life
force of its own churning and twisting and turning: struggling to break out of
its self-imposed prison. Language,
thoughts, emotions and memories scrambled together like so many expired eggs
tumbling out of a cardboard carton onto a cold, hard floor.
Injuries inflicted on her internal
spirit merged together on the highway of life at warp speed, resulting in a
horrifying crash. Body parts,
blood, tissue, personal effects flinging in every direction, splattered over
every surface: Explicit details of the soul’s carnage.
Her tormentor was good – really
good. He was smooth and
sympathetic, clucking and tsk-tsking at all the right times. Big and strong he enveloped her with
golden haired arms allowing her to feel that, as her protector, nothing would
get past him. He was the one and
only one who could take care of her the way she needed to be taken care of. He let it be known that no one could
ever love her the way he loved her. When she started to question herself, he
was agreeable and understood why she felt that way, but then – wait!
Have more patience with me he would
say. I’m sorry he would
murmur. Forgive me he would
whine. I don’t deserve you he
would cry. He knew a sap when he
saw one. While not a musician, he
knew which strings to pluck and play.
Why could she not see that someone was needed to protect her from her
protector?
She knew. Yet, over, and over, and over again she allowed herself to
be baited and switched. He knew a
sap when he saw one.
Inevitably it happened. It was bound to. She came unglued. Wild horse untethered, shaken carbonated
soda-can explosion of a meltdown. Frustration
and sadness – a life form unto itself; it finally happened. She detonated.
This kind, caring individual: mother,
daughter, sister, friend, mentor, student and teacher fell away from her
partially restrained life like a soiled bandage past its prime. This verbally law abiding citizen
committed an act of oral abuse.
Unleashing more than a quarter of a century’s worth of inflicted
censorship and twenty seven plus years of acceptance of worthless apologies,
she morphed into one high blood pressured, apoplectic middle aged woman.
This otherwise outwardly calm lady
was done. Baked. Kaput. Her emotional strength drained from her tired body. Like a well that’s run dry, she
internally heaved and let out one last sound: A deep-gutted moan infused with a
guttural groan rolled past her larynx and pressed on through partially opened terrified
lips.
The body builders at the gym
straining to lift their multi-kilo crucible, the karate adversaries high
kicking at one another’s solar plexus, the constipated and those emerging from
nightmares might fractionally, fractionally, come close to the sound of this
spirit’s defeat.
The pain that wrenched her body and
tore at her soul was relentless.
Waves of confusion as her tormentor sought to console and blame her
simultaneously pushed her to a limit beyond all limits. Stumbling, grasping at the unstable
terrain, she flailed and lost balance.
Fingers in rigor mortis form raked the jagged rocks that tore at the sensitive
flesh of her self, pawing the thin air that was the only thing left between her
and the beyond. And then it happened. The wretched choreography of the damned
and the who gives a damn; she crossed over.
There was nothing left to
grasp. Sanity at this point was
just a faint memory, an illusion of what could have been — what might have
been. There was no more. She let go.
Gravity pulled her down like a ton
of bricks. Gaining momentum she rocketed
earthward. Eyes closed. No more
fight. No more will. Take me. Take me.
With a dull, hollow thud, she hit
bottom. Her body bounced a couple
of times upon impact. Dust flew up
around her in a cyclone of fairy particles that settled, over what seemed to be
drawn out minutes, but what must have been only seconds.
Defeated. A white-flag moment. No more fight. No more will to fight.
Time stood still in the quiet
aftermath of the soul’s demise. With downcast eyes mourners whispered prayers
for the loss of a soul. When all that could be said was said quiet overtook the
violent scene. There was no more sound; it was dead quiet, like being sealed in
a vacuum. The quiet crept into every corner and rolled back into the center of
the crime until it seemed to implode. A black hole of quiet. The ethereal silence seemed to signal
closure.
Time passed. Those closest that
witnessed the surreal scene prepared to leave, heads bowed and hearts heavy, and
then it happened. A life form was
felt. A presence so strong, so pure, so unbelievably solid that you didn’t need
to see it to know that it was there. It was beating and breathing and
beautiful.
The
soul was still alive! The soul
had survived!
Unfurling, like petals breaking
free from a raw, green bud, the spirit of the soul emerged. It opened and came
alive. And as it commenced its rebirth and prepared for its victory walk, the
flesh was compelled to be a part of the whole. In cinematic fashion what had been done was now undone.
Her strength was impenetrable. Calm
and dignified with love and truth pouring out from every pore of her being, she
reigned supreme. Nothing – I mean
not a thing, could touch her.
Anger fell away from her, reaction and judgment didn’t exist, and purity
of spirit was worn like a cloak woven by the angels themselves: a rebirth of
the highest order. This soul, super heroine of the forgotten and betrayed
spirit lived.
\[\[\[\[\[\[\[
Should one dare to listen to the
quiet in the midst of a storm, it can be heard. When the chips have fallen and the dust has settled, the
bruised spirit lives on. When
inner strength is summoned to quietly right a loud wrong, the soul, the super
hero, the super nova of our being exists. It always has.
