There She stood,
joyous, powerful,
resplendent in
braids
fiery orange
glowing aura
and her signature down-home belly laugh.

Great Mother said, 'Be still!'�
And 'the committee in my head' adjourned
with all their hidden agendas
highlighted with negativity
and marked with noise.

They all scampered leaving
only one familiar-looking short one-
with the loudest mouth
still at the table
at the head,
(you know, where Peace is supposed to sit)-
and her name was Doubt.

Doubt, with one arm akimbo
swivelled her head around at me,
smirked
and said,
'So who the France do you think you are?'�

I said nothing.

But I turned and walked
deep into cold, unfamiliar sanctums
of an internal, shadowy landscape
littered with
cobwebs of discontent,
muddied objectives,
aborted projects,
spent wrappers of past relationships
and the rank smell of guilt.

But many miles later,
the hem of my white dress began to flutter.
I wandered until I reached
the pure, salty sound of waves
playing patty cake with the sand,
I wandered until I reached
the sight of my window
in the mansion of my Father on the hill,
glint in the sun.
I wandered until I reached
undulating canefields
ripe with the scent of hope
and the call of
my great-great-great-great spirit sisters
rising in the wind and
echoing in my veins.

Then suddenly
I realized I wasn't alone here
in this natural tabernacle.

I turned around
and there Doubt stood,
Still smirking.
She really knew how to thump the delicate skin of my drum.

I closed my eyes
and opened the fist
fresh with the clenched imprint of my pen,
and gathered air deep into my centre.

Ahhhhh'�

Then I looked at Doubt and affirmed,
'Thank you but you're free to go now.'�


Copyright (c) Sandra Sealy 2003

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