THIS SIDE OF THE WALLED GARDEN

We are precarious, aren’t we? I mean, teetering on the edge, living oblivious to the sheer drop beyond the fog of the mountain.

Don’t worry. I’m not having an existential crisis. And even if I were, I don’t actually think that would be worth worrying about either. I think that would be quite quite normal, and wondering who you are is probably the step to asking, which in turn, is just one step away from finding out. Worrying about that would be like worrying about climbing the stone stairs to a locked door, the other side of which is a beautiful garden.

It’s more of a poetical crisis, if anything - a sort of realisation about the fragility of life, in a rhythmic, eloquent thought that’s looking for a rhyme or a flow or an idea. Yes, says the unwritten poetry, we’re all one heartbeat away from eternity. Yes we’re poised on the narrow slopes of a high, foggy mountain, but also… how do we live while we are? What’s to be done with the confidence of a plan? Who knows how to be, what to do, how to spend our time? Isn’t it all so fragile, so delicate?

Some of us stand on stages and platforms. Most often I’m behind a piano with a microphone in my field of vision. Behind it, out of focus, is a church of people, some with hands in the air, some singing, some not. Some have arms folded, some are just listening. Sometimes I wonder what they would do if they knew how little I know about what I’m doing. I hear myself and I realise that I’m driven by hope and faith just like everyone is. It’s precarious. It’s also beautiful. I hope they don’t think I’ve got it all sorted - it would be easy for them to think that. But it wouldn’t be true, even if it sounds it.

The truth is that I’m halfway up the steps, listening to the birds singing in the evening sunlight. I’m watching the golden leaves, the beautiful trees that sway above the stone wall. I feel the warmth of the autumn air, and smell the soft, sweet fruits that surely grow in the walled garden - lemons, oranges, plums, apples, quinces - so close now. I see the door and I wonder - will light crack through its wood, seep around the edges to burst into this world? Will it open for me? Will it really be locked? Will I know what to do?

I do hope so.