Empty Pockets

A stack of coins. “Seriously.” Last week it was a black comb, the week before it was a leaky pen, and before that, a scrunched packet of broccoli seeds. The fact that he dumped his washing in the pile without checking his pockets demonstrated a lack of care to her. She remembered that as a child she would have been in so much trouble with her mother for leaving things in her pockets. “Oh well, finders, keepers.” Coins left in pockets belonged to her now. Heaven knows he gave her little enough pocket money to buy the essentials. She closed the machine door with a sensation of distaste, almost of disgust, and then washed her hands thoroughly. "Could she go through her life with this feeling of aversion?" It didn’t seem possible. The guilt for the deception was almost folding her in half, like a soggy piece of paper that had gone through the wash. Half-heartedly, she began to sort her own clothes for the next load. Grey, brown, limp, bleak, like her relationship. "Was this who she was now?" It was a hideous thought, but one that required almost too much energy to sustain. That night her thoughts turned around and around in sleep. The stack of coins was swirling and swooping around her, teasing her and tempting her. Nothing was clear. She became increasingly tired with the effort of chasing the coins with her eyes. Just when she wished she could wake up, the coins left through the front door, moving faster and faster. Where they were going was not clear, but there was clarity in the haste, purpose. Their conviction appeared to be so strong that it seemed to her that there was no choice but to follow them.

She awoke with a hangover from the dream. It was so long since she had felt a sense of purpose, even in a dream. A tiny butterfly, in lemon yellow, flicked past her window. Colour. “What had drawn her attention to it”, she wondered? She had forgotten colour. That night she dreamt of the butterfly, captivating her with its colour, flying before her, following the dancing coins. A bird’s singing startled her out of the dream. Singing that was unselfconscious of its astringency, free. This was no caged bird, no apologetic creature with clipped wings. She and the bird and the butterfly followed the coins. This time there was less effort, more ease. The bird soared with a certain joy, the butterfly with graceful delight, and she was starting to feel it too. The next day she pulled out her brightest grey t-shirt. When she put it on, the need for colour began to overwhelm her. The urge to rip the shirt off and burn it shivered through her. She started to panic with the fear of change, so she breathed deeply a few times, and settled passively down to do his washing, as she always did. Night after night, objects and creatures drifted through her waking life and her dream life. Always in bright colours, always with movement, always with purpose. Day by day her need for colour and movement became stronger. It swelled and waned, until it began to fill her entire being at all times, until there seemed to be no choice but for her to move too.

So, she moved, most often against the current. As time passed, however, she noticed that more often she was being propelled forward by a stronger force. She thought about the coins, the bird and the butterfly. Each inspired her in its own way. She saw many signs and symbols, and a rainbow of colours, more symbols and colours every day. She followed each new impulse and learned to enjoy the journey. Slowly the memory of the worn laundry and of emptying pockets faded, as laundry day now involved softness and warmth, and colours of royal blue, turquoise, violet, burgundy and iced-green. Laundry day was a labour of love, an immersion of senses, an awareness of progress. She hung her clothes outside. The sun and the freedom began to work their magic on her. They engulfed her and radiated from within her. Coins began to appear, dancing through her life as they had in the dream, no longer teasing her, but joining her. She danced with them, worked with them, and generously let them go to where they were most needed. There were always more when she needed them, falling like summer rain when clouds were not apparent. There was always something new to learn and experience. There was no repetition. There was no stagnancy. The movement was gentle and enriching. The movement was life.

A year later a woman stepped into her favourite café for her usual latte and red velvet bliss ball. She found a sunny table and smoothed her soft, wool skirt and magenta blazer. She looked up at the sky-blue mural on the far wall. A finch. A finch that sings. A smile caught on her lips, catching her without warning as it so often did now. She spread her sheet music out before her on the table, appreciating the way the notes rose and fell on the pages, reading the poignant words, crafted so masterfully to reflect the music of the soul, the music of life. "How had she forgotten that she loved it so much, the colours of her voice, the colours of her heart, and how they merged together to create a path for feeling? Could it be possible that this was her life now?" She brushed a glossy, chocolate wave of hair from her forehead, realizing that a nice-looking man was watching her from a nearby table. Nobody saw her in her grey days, this was new. She thought to herself how little it mattered to her. She was a whole person at last, living in full colour, living with movement and purpose. As she stepped onto the street, a lemon, yellow butterfly flicked past her. She winked at him, lifted her head to the sky, and continued on her way.