fourth year zara inam

I opened myself up to the possibility of discovering the act of living. In my waking hours I thought up all the things that were not and then dreamed of all the ways that they could be something. Living is not breathing. It is not the biological inside or the physical outside. Behind closed eyes I discover these real desires. To feel is to live - my creating, my building, my wanting. I take the quiescent soldiers - the still, the unmoving, the standing; I name them one by one, giving them their own potential to start being. Life is somehow much more comforting when I bear my own creation.

I take the small pot in my hand and bring it up to my face, making eye contact with the green shrub in front of me. The fern, as we all do, begs for a touch of sunlight. Its leaves fall on my arm, whispering to me of their own desires. Roots swell deeply, planting their footing in the terracotta bowl. Tonight I’ll confess his name if our quiet conversation leads to enough.

I feel the blaze move its fingers across my soul, and in these moments I feel alive. Creation is an unspoken truth with no words to describe the budding metaphor. Perhaps if I accumulated every moment of joy spared and lay it down to blossom in the meadow, I could reach a quarter of the fruition formed in coming alive.

Between repotting soil and watering the leaves, I open myself up to the possibility of who he may be. I take the plant and place him against the cool morning. Green curls fall alongside the pot, as he lays himself out to be. Every afternoon I’ll sneak a glance at him, and as the minutes pass by I feel his own gaze upon me. I am a half-body fascinated by the friendship found in my new being; he is a reflective glass that mirrors my emotions. And as time grows alongside this creation, I will come to terms with birthing the living. “Harry”, I announce in sweet delight. I’ll say his name, giving him unimpeded space to resonate with his new home.

Birthing the Living