FOR A DANCER by JACKSON BROWNE. Story by Ian Lihou.

A garden, a morning.

Oddly quiet.

She woke slowly. The sun’s rays filtering in through the leaves, their warmth soaking into the covers. These wonderfully unhurried, unmedicated days and the luxury of lavendered sheets and feather doonas.

Plans for today were made weeks ago when such things were provisional. This first day home she’d spend in the garden. Just sitting, looking. Maybe, if she felt strong enough, she’d pick flowers for the vase on the kitchen table. Maybe she’d just sit and look. If she was lucky there’d be birds. Fairy wrens. That would be wonderful.

That would be later. For now, she’d doze amid feathers and lavender. Then there’d be tea in the garden.

She always made a pot. Even if it was just for herself. A pot of strong Yorkshire tea for one in a Wedgewood Butterfly Bloom Blue and Pink teacup and saucer. Delicate and pretty, highly appropriate for tea in the garden. It was three years since Graham had passed away. More than other reminders of his absence, making a pot of tea for one was the saddest. The memory of preparing tea for him, often after he’d spent time in the garden, was strongest. He’d come in with the smell of soil on him, or maybe cut grass. Occasionally some nicks and scratches but always excited at the progress he was making. It was her garden. Always was, always will be, and he loved tending it for her.

Tea brewed; the garden enticed.

She slid open the glass doors, wrapped her dressing gown tightly and with measured but determined steps moved outside and headed to the chair that Graham had bought for her many years ago. He’d placed it where she could see most of the garden, in a corner near the wall of the terrace and into which he had planted Dichondra, its silvery leaves providing a back drop to the perfect garden viewing point.

She settled in her nook. It had been so long since she’d seen the garden so bursting with life. If she were to spend the rest of her life here, in Graham’s corner in her garden, she’d be happy.

For the past month Carol, her friend, neighbour and fellow meditator, had been tending to the garden and everything was blooming. The black iris which, although not yet fully open, promised a spectacle that would appear in a day or two. Lavender scent filled the air. And the roses. Lordy, the roses.

Sitting there with her tea the next year held no dread for her.

Less pain, less fear.

She closed her eyes; the sun bathed her face.

Her heart was slow and relaxed. Her arms resting against Graham’s chair. Her eyes were closed but not held shut, feet on the grass. She dissolved into the garden space and became one with its beauty and peace, wholly integrated. Carol spoke of achieving Nirvikalpa samadhi. This must be what she’d meant.

She and her garden existed as one.

It reminded her of when the conductor moves to the podium and, with a couple of taps, signals the dawn of the main event. An awakening. A metamorphosis.

No longer alone, her space was now filled with something substantial but without physical presence, odd yet familiar, and she welcomed her new familiar companion.

She felt herself drift away from the real world. Just her and her new found, devoted sentinel.

Within her grew an even brighter, more intense light. It grew until it outshone the sun and she was swaddled in it.

She marvelled at it, stared at it and was consumed by it and immersed in it.

Gently and with love she felt her quietly odd companion guide her towards the light.

No pain, no demons.

She smiled.

It was to be a very good year.

Stereo Story #761