The Meadow

Bliss. The exact meaning of the word is, according to conventional society, “perfect happiness”. However simple definitions could never capture the feeling Iris holds, and she does not live in conventional society. In the Meadow, the rules do not apply and she is exempt.

She can use as many or as few words as she likes to describe how she feels when her bare feet sink into the delicious mud, the sensation of the tiny emerald fingers of grass tickling her toes. Tiny buds turn their heads to appreciate her, florescent petals. Butterflies spread their wings which shimmer like diamonds in the summer sun and flutter. Whitewashed huts provide a lining for the fields, a gold frame around a watercolour painting. One may sink into the bed of nature and close their eyes. If they do not wish to, they do not need to open them again. But the Meadow is not a place to sleep. It is a place full of life and exuberance, from the hearty populace to every worm that slips through the soil. Every day Iris steps out and the Meadow overwhelms, suffocating her in a warm embrace, a kind of welcome sacrifice of the senses to achieve complete and utter, well…bliss. That’s just it. For so long Iris has battled with language to arrive at any word that could come close to how the Meadow makes her feel, makes all of them feel. Bliss is the only one that could ever aspire. 

In the Meadow Iris is not alone, she never is. Whether it is with the birds and the bees, or with the rest of her family. There they are now, a few figures approaching clad in white robes. They weave flowers in her hair, she knows by now it is a gesture of goodwill. Closing her eyes, Iris inhales the scent of the Lilies of the Valley. How sweet, how purely innocent. They keep her a dreamer, wishing to float up into the clouds and dance in the swirling sky. She thinks about it less and less as every day passes.

“How goes it?” A silky voice coos. It is like the richest fabric in the world. Drinking chocolate.

“Well. How goes it?” Iris replies, easily. 

“Well. Do you wish any changes?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Iris.” Iris appreciates the conversation, always just enough to add flavour but not enough to drown out the taste of the world around her. What a small, beautiful world. The Meadow calls to her so she raises herself to her feet. 

“What will you do today?” Another voice asks.

“I will bathe in the sun, I will dance with the flowers. Do you think they want to dance today?”

“They want to dance every day. Take their leaf in your hand, kiss it and bow, they will happily oblige.”

“What a silly picture.”

“Indeed.”

“What will you do today?”

“I will prepare for the sun in the coming days. While it strengthens, so will I. I do not want to be left behind by the sky.” 

“No, you do not. Perhaps one day I will forsake my bath and do just that, but then again it is that dip in the pool of sunlight that is my greatest pleasure.”

“Then you will do that.”

“Yes, I will.” 

“Farewell.”

“Farewell.”

Skipping in time to the happy rhythm of her heart, Iris moves across the Meadow, searching for her favourite patch. It is all perfect, but she has a particular affection for a certain area, where when she lays a special flower tickles her nose softly. Falling into the fields of felicity, Iris’s mind began to float off and drift away. It did not travel to the sun and sky as it normally did, however. Instead, it returned to the past.

  An indeterminable amount of summers ago she had first arrived at the Meadow. Her baggage was heavy and her heart heavier, weighed down by the aches and pains of a life of normalcy and complacency. Looking back it was hard to understand how anyone could stand to lead a life so testing. Just like anyone would, as soon as she came to the Meadow she dropped the bags off her shoulders and dove headfirst into the flowers, soaking up the pollen. Since then she had remained submerged, never wanting to leave. Then she had clarity and it occurred to her that she had not dived in headfirst. She had been pushed. Hands held her below the surface, they still do. Suddenly the sunlight felt pale and a bee landed on the flower inches away from her face.

Iris scrambles to her feet and her heart begins to pound. She needs air, she needs space to be unhappy but all around her are the blossoms and the smiles. A few of the others seem to see her sudden alarm and begin to move forward, arms outstretched and grins so wide they seem unachievable unless you have hooks in your checks to pull your lips further upwards. Iris has borne that look many times, just this morning she was unequivocally taken by it. But not now. 

“Iris, how goes it?” Someone seems to ask, although she sees no mouths move. For the first time, Iris does not reply and she runs, her feet stamping down on the flowers, pressing the blossoms into the earth and crushing them. 

“How does that feel?” She mutters to herself. It is shocking how much joy it brings her, to take it away from other living things. But that is what she has been told, do what brings you happiness. She trips and lands back in the field, a splattering of mud sprays onto her face. She gets back to her feet, wipes it away and continues to run. 

She reaches the end of the Meadow: a summit overlooking a vast valley, filled with nothing but more flowers, possibly even more Meadows. If she were to jump, she would only end up in the same place. Death would be submission. In their eyes, a precious sacrifice. She gasps for air, doubled over and once again her mind is taken back. But it is not a slow drifting off like the first time, it is a violent jolt into a reality she wishes to forget. How they took her baggage from her and stored her away in the huts until she was ready to drown for them. They wove flowers into her hair and made silent promises that if she moved too much they would wrap around her neck too. But if you close your eyes, steady your breathing and stay still you never have to know. That is how she has done it all these summers. Now she is opening eyes she didn’t know were closed, she didn’t even know they existed. Finally, she understands why bliss is the correct word to describe the Meadow. The true meaning of bliss is pleasing ignorance.