The Shadows

The light shown on Anya’s fingers. It curled around her palm and danced. This, she thought, was the sheer pleasure of having magic. 

    But in the midst of her play, a shadow grew.  It was not unexpected; it was the cost of doing magic, for it always begot shadows.  But it never ceased to offer discomfort.  If she could find a way to practice her craft and leave behind the adjacent darkness, she would.   

    Anya was not fond of the dark, or shadows, or of the sense of unease that grew whenever she let the flickering brightness dance.  But, too, there was a feeling of wholeness in her work.  How could that be, such fulfillment when darkness lay about her?  A constant wonder—the weight of it only born by extinguishing the light for a time until she could bear it again. 

    Today was such a time.   

    Anya took the light, and threw it at the darkness.  The next breath, and it was gone.  Elimination brought palpable relief, while at the same time she felt the loss of brightness acutely. These feelings, this tumult of emotions, were not the result of some kind of strange equilibrium.  There was no balance to maintain—no theory of opposites that naturally upheld.  It was only her work. A mere byproduct of the fact that where she called her light, the darkness followed. 

    And while she mourned its loss each time, there was ready comfort in the knowledge that the light would return again.  When she called it.  When she was ready.  When she could bear it.  

    On that day she would call forth light and let it dance in glorious display.  The shadows would begin to creep, slowly, steadily, and Anya would know that they were there.  But the light would hold them at bay.  There would be delight, laughter, joy.  Until it could not be born and joy would turn to sorrow.  Not fear.  Never fear.  Only sorrow.  For she knew how to eviscerate the darkness.  But sorrow, that she must let her light wane.  For a time.  An equal part to the joy that grew when she was once again ready to display dancing beams. And perhaps, the next time, it would last a little longer.

    It was nothing more than rhythm.  A cycle.  She could bear it, because she had born it before.  She would do so again.  Because the light was worth it.  Even in the knowledge of coming darkness.  

    For that was how it was: to play with the light, one had to endure the shadows.

Popular posts from this blog

'There Are Wizards Up There'

A woman went walking in the wood one day. It was a thing she had not done since she was a child. Weeks of a tiring, soulless existence had turned into years, and somehow she believed in the depths of her that it would all change with a single walk in the wood. But even as she walked amongst the trees, the world seemed the same - tiring and soulless. And then she turned the corner, only to find a little girl tiptoeing along the path.     The little girl started when she saw the woman. Then she brought a finger to her lips.     'Be quiet,' the little girl whispered.     The woman bent her body slightly, hunched her shoulders, and whispered back, 'Why?'     'There are wizards up there,' the girl returned softly, pointing up the fern-strewn hill that lay next to the path.      The woman's face went solemn then. Her feet moved of their own accord, arching and heightened on the tips of her own toes.     The little girl nodded with approval.     Suddenly they under
Read more

Balance of Hearts

 There was once a woman whose heart ebbed and waned with the goodness and sorrow of the world. All was well, while the balance remained. But when the world bent in favor of sorrow for too long, the woman felt her heart break. She fell upon her back and watched the spinning of time with all the numbness of her broken heart, where she could not weep or wail, keen or care, for her heart no longer worked. And she was alone.     And there was once a man whose heart tipped and righted with the goodness and sorrow of the world. He remained steady, content to feel as events came and went. Until the world tipped into sorrow and he could not bear the length of it for the breaking of his heart. He sank into a chair, his head shaking in his hands, his body unable to feel the prick of needle nor the edge of a knife, for his heart had shattered. And he was alone.     Too, there was once a child whose heart rose and fell to a tune of its own, untouched by the goodness and the sorrow of the world. She
Read more

The Broken Leaf

 Once there was a leaf that fell from a tall tree and landed on a paved road with a crinkle.     With the crinkle came a crack, which split a seam right through the leaf's tenderest section.     The leaf groaned, horrified at its unsightly blemish.     But then a child came and squealed with delight as she picked up the leaf and peered through the crack into the other side of the world.     And the leaf suddenly felt like there was nothing wrong with being broken.
Read more