broken

I was in the home of an acquaintance, who is an expert in her field - a creative, a diva, known for her work. She was out of the house and I was busying myself at her dressing table, in front of the mirror. A beautiful antique china vase with a hinged lid sat atop the dressing table. I carefully opened the lid for a moment, touching it lightly so as not to damage it. Closing it, I looked back into the mirror, when I heard something crack. The lid of the vase was broken, a jagged hole in the lid and a piece of china adrift on the dressing table. I was horrified, not sure what to do. My friend returned home and I had to tell her. She was extremely upset and told me it had been her grandmother's. It was very precious to her. I promised to buy her something of value, another antique vase, but I knew that nothing could match the value of this piece. I had broken something of great personal value to her and it could not be fixed.
Next, I was in the bedroom of another acquaintance, again a creative, a rather studied man, once revered for his work. He handed me his diary - a stylish black Moleskin - and a sharp lead pencil. He asked me to write something down and left the room. I opened the diary, wrote on the last page, ripped it out, folded it and put it in my pocket. Suddenly, I realised that I had ruined the diary, that, with a page missing, torn from the book, it was no longer complete. For such a perfectionistic man, I knew the diary was broken. I rushed from the room, determined to buy another diary, but, flicking through the pages, I could see page after page of personal entries, written in a careful hand in lead pencil. Nothing would replace this diary, which evidently was of great value to the man. I returned to the room, placed the diary carefully on his bed, and left, hoping, somehow, that he would never notice the torn edge of the last missing page in his book.

trapped

Early evening and the streets were in darkness. I was in an unfamiliar town, heading home, walking with three tall, burly, bearded mountain men. I liked them immensely, but I knew them little. We reached a narrow lane and the man started down it. I hesitated, scanning the crossroad, realising I had a choice: I could go with them, trust them, or walk back the way we had come and navigate the dark streets alone. Neither option seemed sensible. The men urged me to join them and appeared mystified as to my uncertainty. 'I don't know you,' I said. I looked again back down the road, a few people now milling under the street lights, and thought I'd go that way. Immediately, a gate closed across the lane entrance. A third time, I looked back down the road  and now the people were in turmoil: men hurting women, women hurting one another, gangs travelling up the road toward me. Violence, crime and torture. I ran at the gate, it opened and I fled down the lane, calling to others in the lane to run, run. A young girl started screaming and I clapped my hand over her mouth, running with her, anxious that we should escape unheard, unharmed. At the end of the lane, I emerged into a maze of streets, alone but for the three men. Finding my car, I jumped in and the men all helped to push the car into a secure position from which to climb the steep and alarmingly narrow road. I drove up and, upon reaching a huge step, poked my legs through the car floor and stepped up, dragging the car with me. At the top of the hill I looked back to see that the men had driven a different route and I wondered, had I gone the wrong way? I continued on foot, turned into a dark tunnel and climbed up the steep stairs inside. A crowd of people followed, all desperate to go home. At the top of the stairs, the tunnel opened to a lane that ran between tall buildings. I peeked out. Soldiers waited at one end of the lane to my left, and soldiers wearing a different uniform guarded the other end of the lane to my right. We could not go forward and, because the long, long line of people stretched all the way back down through the tunnel, we were unable to retreat. We were trapped. A soldier appeared at the doorway and was about to blow the whistle when he spied someone he knew, someone he once fancied, standing third in line. She, knowing the privileges of being in his favour, stepped outside but asked to bring one other person with her. She chose a young man from the front of the queue. I held two old women who leant against me for support, tears spilling onto my cheeks as I could see no rescue, no escape. There was no future for those of us trapped in the tunnel, the soldier about to uncover us.

into the light

We saw something - a light, a ghost, an angel - descend from the sky and settle nearby. I raised myself into the air and flew over, sweeping in a large arc, and landed close to the light - for now, it was clear it was light. B joined me, having followed on foot, and waded without hesitation into the light. 'Come in,' she called. I tentatively dipped a hand into the glittering sea of white and purple particles, but I withdrew quickly as the light prickled and needled my skin. I persisted and, after a few attempts, I stepped into the light. Walking around, the light ceased to prickle and, instead, I felt bathed in wonder.