She had no name

We are all affected by glimpses of pure love,
like Robin Girl -- and we too seek
a return to innocence.

Yet many things are about to see,
and a visit to the Abbey
may highten our perceptions.

papa
...............................................................

NO NAME

My steps always slow a bit when I wander past -- you know, that house on Earl Lane. It is medium far from my new digs, of course; but I always find parking by the playground and time to amble by -- just in case she is about -- or in -- never quite sure of the phrase. One might think me a hapless swain or tabloid reporter with my frequency -- but others come too. We just smile, and nod -- never exchanging a word -- no need. Either you understand or you don't. If you know her name you come. Simple.

I first heard it when I crossed the street to admire her bed of flowers -- laughing friends of sunlight when other yards were drab and brown -- forlorn. I laughed and whistled to a caterpillar pulsing there -- strange -- it was autumn! No matter -- the flowers waved back at me in rhythm and sang her name -- "Anashee" -- I thought I saw her shadow at the window. Another time I saw her at the market -- the outdoor one. Made sense! I knew it was she -- her slender staff tapping a dance on the stones -- silver plaited hair entwined with scarlet yarn. The teaming, surging crowd jostled each other and stalls shook from clutching, clamoring hands -- but she stood alone -- no one near. It was as if she was not really there -- yet as if no one else was -- a space and dream apart. I drew close and I knew she smiled though I never saw her face -- never have. But she spoke to me -- well sort of. My heart sang a whispered, "Anashee." You only have to hear it once -- and you remember. Silly thing to say!

Others say they have seen her by the river -- always on the other side -- but no one can say exactly when -- or time of day -- just when they were caught up in some moment of joy or youthful play -- look up -- away -- know that she is there. I haven't though -- perhaps I lack a sense of awe or wonder -- perchance I don't need to see her. After all -- I know her name! I could find her if I chose of course -- just clear my mind of jumbled thoughts and imagined needs -- and let my soul guide my feet. It is enough for now to revel in the trail of whispers she leaves behind -- prancing grass and chattering leaves -- and raindrops pooling in mirrors of light -- and seeds contenting themselves with tomorrow -- and strangers touching hands -- and trees asking to be hugged. Where she passes time ripples a bit and I look back at where I will someday be -- a child again -- I hope.

There are rumors that she is a sourceress -- couldn't be -- but people need a word -- never said with rancor or fear -- just something that pops into their head -- those who don't hear her name. Don't know why people need a label -- why not just accept? Someone said she was from another place -- didn't specify -- just a statement of fact. Where she is -- is now -- must be, I guess. We are from another place -- not hers. Oh, I understand! "Anashee" is not her name! It is a vibration of the current I feel when standing here -- this empty lot covered in thorns -- no address on the curb -- only a twisting path through untended grass. She walked her once -- I know -- it was enough. For when a wizard passes flowers grow, the say. And now I will trace that path forever -- and the cottage will return -- and the fountain gurgle over ageless stones -- and the windows cast back a reflection of another time -- never lost. Come sit here a spell with me. Sing of Anashee. Sit.

But sing.