flowersforauschwitz

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12-FEB-2002 00:05: The First Story That Fell Out of My Head

FLOWERS FOR AUSCHWITZ

I could not tell you with any certainty when, or how it all began. As a child I believed the visions were little more than fragmented dreams caught in the toothed comb of morning. As I grew older, I began to slip away through the day as well. "Daydreaming," my mother would chastise.

In my teen years, the dreams took on a turbulent, nightmarish quality. I soon found I could not bear to read the books or watch the films that were so popular among my peers -- too keenly could I feel the anguish of the portrayed moments, however imaginarily they might have been cast.

Then, in my seventeenth year, something happened. I dreamed of a child. A young girl. Her face drew me to her, so beautiful in its innocence. She lifted her head and cast her gaze around. I followed her lead, discovering that we were in a one-roomed cabin. The light was sparse and no fire flickered in the open grate but I could make out a table and a long shelf along the opposite wall. The wind howled mournfully beyond the roughly hewn door; an icy cold breath bleeding through its seams. But something else held my horrified attention. A stench had begun to creep, rising with the corruptness of a foul dawn. Then, I saw them, their bodies lying stiffly on a low bed in the corner. Tears filled the child's eyes at this vision and she huddled even closer to the black-packed earth. She began to rock; her movements and grief drawing me in, closer to the heart of her despair.

I wish I could say that I went to her eagerly, but I did not. I struggled. I did not want to be in that place. I did not want to feel that pain. That suffering. That great aching need! I struck out. I flailed against the force that had placed me in such misery. And then ... I touched her. My god, I could feel her! As easily as I might feel you if I were to reach out now and place my hand gently on your shoulder. No dream. She was as real as you, or I. It was then that I wanted her to know she was not alone.

I positioned myself next to her despairing form and held her, staying until she passed into the uncompromising arms of death. Except for her last unblinking stare she seemed unaware of my presence. I stumbled from the dream then, filled with a sense of humble gratitude that I had been able to offer her such a small comfort. It was thus I discovered I could travel through time.

You must understand -- it was with great uncertainty that I began to experiment with this newfound discovery. I was cautious in my explorations at first but then I began to push at the limits of these far-flung boundaries. I became driven to master my abilities, in part by the horror of finding myself in nightmares that were not of my own dreaming, but more than this was the sweet call of destiny herself. This was mine. My purpose. My calling. It was why I was here.

Eventually I came to understand the confusing pathways and was able to wander the landscapes of time with deliberate action. I could go wherever I chose, but only to comfort those in need -- such were the constraints of my boundaries. After that, it became easier. Though the dreams still bid me each night I could now follow of my own volition, avoiding the places of most torment. I found it much easier, for example, to help an elderly man slip the confines of his diseased body than to face the ravages of war, or plague. It was on these small tragedies that I honed the skills of my trade -- if one could call it such.

I come, rather, I am called, only in the moments of greatest suffering. Most often, this is at the concluding moments of life but not always, for there are many deaths, not of the body alone. Usually I remain unseen. Few possess the sensitivity to see me and truthfully, I prefer to remain anonymous. More often than not, I am simply felt: in a presence. in the lifting of a burden. in a sense of kinship with something greater than one's own self.

It required practice before I was able to enter the moment of despair rather than flee from it. I must become one with the pain, pass through it and then, return whole and intact. My ineptitude at mastering this skill leaves me marked with the residue of grief for days after each encounter and this has rendered me a rather melancholic individual in my waking hours. In spite of this, I wouldn't dream of not continuing. Within each dreamscape I become the bridge to a greater destiny. I ask no more than this and always, as I release the spirit to the Universe that gave it birth, I am filled with the same humility as I was that first time. I am honored to be this: a cosmic midwife to the passages of time.

Some places however, were charged with such intense grief, such overwhelming pain, that I could not bear to go there at first. Like other abilities, this too was a skill capable of refinement. So it was that in time I came to be at Auschwitz.

"What was it like?" you might ask. This is a difficult question to answer if only because the sight cannot be seen with the eyes alone. You must reach beyond, as if to clasp the image to your soul. Can you imagine a place where the colors have all gone blind? Where the joy of song has withdrawn into a hushed, stilted silence? Where touch has become like a stone, paralyzed with the fear of its own embrace. This then, is Auschwitz -- a cold, dark heart.

I did not feel prepared when I first arrived and how could I? How could anyone?

His still form lay before me. His body was thin to the point of disbelief. His eyelids were closed yet I sensed the empty gaze beyond them. I ventured forth with compassionate caution for here was a pain that was not like any I'd encountered before. He was broken, completely so. Bereft as he was, he lay beyond the salvation of his own tears. I was not prepared. Swept away by the unrequited sorrow of his soul, I began to weep. Long flowing trails of tears that built into a keening wail that swallowed me up whole. It seemed as though I wept for an eternity and when I lifted my weary gaze at last, he was gone. Departed and peacefully at rest.

Now, I slip easily, in and out of the tapestry of time. Drawn by the folds in the fabric I go to whomever may need me. I hold those who are alone so they will not die without the comfort of loving arms around them. I whisper songs of joy to those caught in the web of despair. I weep for the ones who can weep no longer. I do not work alone for there are many of us.

But today, I return to Auschwitz for I have gardens to tend there. The guards, (and I smile in this moment to recall them), do not know where the flowers have come from. "Imagine," they snort, "flowers in a place such as this!" They pull the fragile stems up angrily, fearfully, and cast them aside as they look suspiciously over their shoulders. There will come a time when I may return to comfort them also, but now is not that time. Now is the time of sowing seeds for the tender humanity of this brutal place. If I could do more, I willingly would, but these are the limits of my wakeful unconsciousness -- to scatter the seeds of hope and compassion again and again, knowing full well that I must return tomorrow to do the same. I burrow my fingers into the ground and press a kernel to the open wound. Already, I can feel the determined pulse of life in the seeded heart. I am confident, these flowers will grow. The guards will not destroy them all and those that remain will struggle against the dark cloak of soil, reaching always upward to the brighter light of day.

I busy myself with my work and soon -- I've come to expect it now -- I feel a prickling sensation gather at the outer ring of my consciousness. It is similar to the rush of a crowd drawing near, even though none dare move, none dare whisper in this place. It is their souls that clamor. Drawn up from the recessed corners of this barren existence, pouring out in the searching portals of their eyes which graze and pick at the shadows. And they know. They sense. They are not alone.

I go now, at peace with the little peace I can offer. But the flowers remain. Nestled in the nourishing womb of earth. Dreaming of the liberation of spring.

© 1995

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