Prose Poem ~ Chi

Amongst the walkers and talkers, the joggers and the stationary phone callers she is sitting on a stone bench facing the sun, eyes closed, her palms cupped in front of her as if she is waiting to receive something. Perhaps it is just the warmth of the sun’s first rays she is grateful for, the breeze off the ocean’s boisterous waves with its lick of salt. But I think of all the other waves we cannot see – electro-magnetic, light below infra-red, above ultra-violet – and all the things we don’t yet understand about our world and where the thoughts and memories of everyone who has ever sat in that place, their anger and dreams, their regrets and hopes, might be stored.

And I remember a meditation class from years ago when we all closed our eyes and let our hands gather the air in front of us into a smaller and smaller compressed ball and Yes, we said, we could feel the tension there, an energy pulsing against our palms, our fingertips. Was it true? Or did we imagine it because we wanted it to be so?

At the other end of the beach the volleyball players are leaping and diving across the sand, slapping the ball over the net, high-fiving each other’s success.
All of us are holding out our hands, sometimes empty, sometimes full.