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13/11/2017 / hbrowne4

The Sands of Arabia by Bridin Mary Harnett


Spiritual resonances elevate. Perhaps not the most delectable of scenes as piles of sand line the roundabout devoid of earthly signals and drivers intuitively find their way about measuring space and proximity, until I, sitting comfortably in the rear of the bus, find myself within scraping distance of the van at the adjacent window and strangely without hearing the screeching of brakes, the bus manages to manoeuvre threads of coiled edges through the traffic, over the mount and into Hitten, Riyadh.

I live in a modern building, secured with lock and key and chain. A flight of stairs and a swimming pool adorn the ascent and the descent of the building. The staircase reminds me to rise with elegance across the wrought iron balustrade and coiled flowers remind me of reticent beauty. Until now there is so much to be explored and I traverse depths in my struggle to find acceptance and peace. Every weekend, colleagues filter back and forth from holy pilgrimage and reverence exudes light in the skyline in a sense of humble strength. The elegance of veiled women, their black shades cover the mysteries of the soul and heads are held high at the crown. There is no slink in delicate movement, somewhat constricted by the flow of yards of silken material and sensuality is hidden from eyes that should not see. Physical veils are empowering until the eyes of the spirit are attuned to see.

I live in two veils now, a coloured one and a black chiffon over veil which I draw over my face seeking radiant illumination. This is God’s land, the peninsula where God’s Prophets lived and died. Their resin is felt in the air I breathe as the sand grates the feet. The kindness of anchored soil does not exist here. But that which is lacking in the sense of the material world leads me to the subliminal as I look through the porous viscosity affronting material view. I am but a camel’s breath away at the speed of light. Then a meteor struck home at a devilish glare as the unseen is barely apparent. For everything is written on the head and is interpreted by those who know. Darkness emanates from the quietness as the curtains are drawn, until the lights are switched off to signify the sleep of night. And when the lights are out, movement flits outside and eyes watch in the darkness to see who looms there. Sat on hunkers, with arms folded, appointed to watch until the white threads of daybreak cleave the night sky apart, until it is rolled away and it covers night activity no more.
The night prayer calls and shops are shut down with metallic shutters in obedience and customers file outside.
The coda of the evening’s end.


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