Cherie Renae
Seated Meditation
The bench is built into the side of the grass bank. Each stone looks hand-hewn by an apprentice stonemason, chisel marks rough and irregular. A bamboo thicket hovers protectively and bluebells grow in the cracks, their delicate blossoms fiercely protected by sword-blade leaves.
The bench doesn’t know this, of course. The bench doesn’t know it’s a bench. It doesn’t know it’s a bed for wildflowers, or that it gives the bamboo a reason to feel fierce and protective, to rub its leaves loudly, creating a light, menacing sound. It doesn’t know that after the wildflowers fade come trumpeter vines, then the deep heat of summer.
It’s unaware that in a century the creeping vines will loosen the carefully laid stones, that in ten thousand years waters will rise, and the loosened stones will tumble to dust.
pouring tea
emptiness
overflowing
About the Author
Cherie Renae grew up in a close-knit Syrian community. She learned the art of storytelling from her beloved grandfather, who was a renowned bard. She is a published author and an award-winning photographer, and lives in the Pacific Northwest with her tiny chiweenie, Leo, and her grey kitty, Atticus Finch.