Liz Lanigan

It’s Dark

at the bottom of a deep well. No one can reach me. No colours here, not even black and white. It’s murky, grey, day after day. My famous 5-acre voice that could call my distant children home for lunch becomes a whisper. I’m stuck.

But then the Dalai Lama comes my way. Something about happiness. How to achieve it. The introduction promises to help those suffering what someone else called the dark night of the soul. I manage to read it, and when I finish, I read it again. The third time some words get through the hard shell I’ve constructed to protect me. Something about impermanence. I feel the slightest glimmer of hope. So I read it once again.

I turn my eyes skyward and see a footing on the stone wall that I haven’t noticed before. I pull myself up and find a ledge to sit on. From there I cry for help. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of doing that before. And someone hears me, reaches down to grasp my outreached hand and pulls me out.

chanting
this too will pass
for solace
the wane and wax
of moonlight

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About the Author

Liz Lanigan’s tanka and tanka prose have been published in various journals. She is currently the tanka prose editor for the Tanka Society of America’s journal, Ribbons.

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