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It Isn't Flying
0 ReviewsEdna meditates on meditation and the results thereof. Oneshot.
It isn’t flying. That isn’t my power, to soar through the skies unimpeded, as if it were second nature, as high and far as I please. No, it’s too hard for me. It burns up too much power. It’s taking a lot of effort right now, just to float here, hovering less than six inches off the ground. Maybe only four if you count the cushion. Is it possible to sit zazen without having your legs crossed? Mother and I always knelt. It wasn’t becoming for a lady to have to rearrange her skirts so. I suppose it doesn’t really matter.
It’s a funny feeling, to be bobbing here like the dust motes swirling in the sunbeam that lances through my window and spills onto the polished hardwood floor. I am an object, just like the dust motes, like the cushion, and the little end table and vase and the flower inside it. I can be picked up and moved via my own power just as they can. It’s odd what a mental block that can be. Heavy things shouldn’t be able to float in mid-air; certainly not grown women, even if they are only three-foot-eight. Sixty-seven pounds is hardly lighter-than-air. And yet here I float; a breath away from plunking back down and feeling the tailbone-turning hardness of the floorboards no matter how thick the cushion is.
It isn’t about my weight or the thinness of the air. It is about finding a place where you wouldn’t be ordinarily. I don’t remember my mother flying, but I remember she could do it, though that was never what she called it. She was simply friends with the elements, was what she had said, and the air was one of them.
It’s a funny feeling, to be bobbing here like the dust motes swirling in the sunbeam that lances through my window and spills onto the polished hardwood floor. I am an object, just like the dust motes, like the cushion, and the little end table and vase and the flower inside it. I can be picked up and moved via my own power just as they can. It’s odd what a mental block that can be. Heavy things shouldn’t be able to float in mid-air; certainly not grown women, even if they are only three-foot-eight. Sixty-seven pounds is hardly lighter-than-air. And yet here I float; a breath away from plunking back down and feeling the tailbone-turning hardness of the floorboards no matter how thick the cushion is.
It isn’t about my weight or the thinness of the air. It is about finding a place where you wouldn’t be ordinarily. I don’t remember my mother flying, but I remember she could do it, though that was never what she called it. She was simply friends with the elements, was what she had said, and the air was one of them.
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