Easter in the Curling Flower Spaces

There's a scene in Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury that I love more than any other. Benjy is peering out on to a golf course from a safe and green little cubby of weeds and flowers. All of the action he sees occurs "between the curling flower spaces." Between the Curling Flower Spaces. I love the juxtaposition of silence and fluid action. I love that Benjy's whole world is framed by a kind of haphazard twirling of nature.  It's the serene safety of an eternal child. Nothing is brewing under the surface. Nothing is weighed down by connotation.  It's just quiet and it Is, simply, what it Is.  And he looks through the flower spaces not with fear or frustration at being separated but with an innocent anticipation of impending discovery.  He knows that eventually, he's going to push right through those spaces and join the game.  And maybe that's what I like.

There's a bridge that runs over the Cahaba River just as it bends. It runs silver (and green) under an ancient canopy of Sycamore trees. And I've never seen what lies up around the bend. But I once had a dream that it was a kind of crucible of red and orange and pink light with mosquito hawks darting off the surface of the water and green moss blanketing the rocks that lead right up to the edge. And lilies, of course. I can't explain it, but something primal says this is what happens when you die. And I think of those who have gone ahead who I can't touch and those who are going now (even as I type!) and wonder if maybe my sorrow isn't a little bit of jealous after all.

I feel myself falling backward into infancy. Into the darkness of what was Before. And yet something entirely atavistic and strong moves forward. Not with fear or fury, but with great anticipation as if the veil between Heaven and Earth is—right at this moment— thinner than the surface tension on the Cahaba River. I feel the plans he has for me. And when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.

This year, as the stone rolls away from the tomb, I come forth with Christ. I can't explain it other than to say I have been made alive in a way I can't explain with a power I can't explain. And I don't feel hurt over things that used to hurt and I don't feel bound by things that used to bind. All of the Shut Up! voices are still and murmuring and planted somewhere as deep as time and I can't really make them out anymore. I see the faces, but I can't hear the words. The Dead Marshes no longer woo. And I'm free.