Abstract
Christa ignored
In the chapel with the rattling windows we sat with the wounded one in our midst unremarked, unremarkable. Her arms lifted over her head eyes closed in a gesture that could be read as pleasure or pain. We milled about her body circling, not touching. Some arrived late, without language or a reason to be here. Some spoke often, rehearsing their anxiety, asking many questions. Some knew the story, others only a name or a hint of a name that might or might not have been hers. All the time, she kept her counsel a deliverance we might yet choose to receive. © Nicola Slee
Noli me tangere
for Jill Harshaw
Don’t touch me I have not risen into the person I may yet be Don’t touch me life and death strive in me, and your hold might tip the balance Don’t touch me the boundaries of my body are too porous Don’t touch me find other ways to come close Don’t touch me the god in me will consume you © Nicola Slee
Storm damage
At the back of the monastery garden on the border of the sea green wood a great branch of sycamore lies fallen. The wild night, first night of June cold as December, shaken by gales, lopped it off in a single gash. The body took the force head on, unprotected: trunk ripped open, rendered hollow. The lichened, once-airy limb lies still, its clusters of leaves huddled like broken fingers enduring the violent undoing. © Nicola Slee
Sabbatical
Live like the rain: taking its time, in no hurry to stop, drenching the ground. Live like the garden soaking it up, taking the goodness into itself, giving back beauty and green. Live like the cat stretched out under the rosebush: giving herself to sleep in the delicious morning. Live like you believe in your life, like it is the gift you say it is and not any kind of punishment. Live the days in slow motion catching the sound of rain on roof watching what is growing or dying back as you go backwards and forwards on the path between house and garden living the life you were made to love. © Nicola Slee