Light Inside the Body

We floated together, facing out to creation. The curve of my small spine pressed against the curve of his small spine. The soles of my feet pressed against the soles of his feet. I had a heart outside myself—ten thousand hearts outside myself—pumping thick red blood out to the fingers and toes of the world.

Our tiny heads rested on the skulls of those who had come before us. We dreamt their dreams. Thought their thoughts. They told us who we were and what we would become. Not this, not that, they said. Not a boy, not a girl. They spoke softly of mountains and rivers and winds, hooves and scales and wings. You are a whole wilderness, they said, rising up from earth.

With this they made certain we understood what was most important to understand: that we knew the borrowedness of our bodies. Knew that we were no one thing. Hair would sprout from our scalps and teeth would drop from our gums, but we had fur and fins and horns and antlers, all inside of us as well. You are a whole wilderness, they said, falling down to earth.

And when all went quiet and we could no longer make out the sound of these murmurings, I leaned back just a little into the spine that curved against my spine, and I said to the heart outside myself, Where are you? And the heart outside myself said, I’m right here. Where are you? And I said, I’m right here, too.

And that’s how I knew I was alive and of the world. That I was nothing less and nothing more than everything that had already been, and everything that would ever be. Who I was was happening, and this happening could never be undone.