I stood still in that place where they were and it was dark. I was afraid to move. I heard voices and they seemed to be talking to me, but I could not be sure, so I smiled, just in case. I found my way about by guesswork and made my own torches to light the way, woven from my hair and spittle, until my mouth was dry and my hair was thin and my scalp was a weeping sore.
It was so lonely and silent there that I looked for others who shared the place with me and I heard their voices speaking to each other. I spoke to them about their thoughts and dreams and they spoke to me and it was less lonely then. They spoke to me about another place where it was not dark and they did not have to use their hair and spittle to make torches, for the light shone always. I wanted to be in that place.
They seemed so confident and sure of themselves, moving about with ease, not needing to guess where they were but somehow knowing. This puzzled me and I did not understand. Then one day there was someone who saw me and he said so. He said he saw a person there and it seemed to be me. I was amazed, for how could he know I was there, in the dark? I couldn’t see him, so how could he see me? I could only see what I could work out from what he told me, his tone of voice and how he made me feel.
Surely he could only see what he imagined me to be and I wasn’t sure he was all that accurate in his guessing, for he didn’t seem to guess that much. He seemed to stumble about in the dark and hold on tight to anything he fell over and he fell over me several times and often bruised me in the process.
Then there was another person who agreed to be my friend and help me explore the place where I lived and learn more about it. I hoped that she would guide me, but she always waited for me to find the way and she would follow. This made me afraid at first but soon I learned to guess what she wanted and went the way she seemed to like best.
We met many times by agreement, until it seemed to me that somehow she could truly see me there in the dark, but I did not understand how. I longed for her to prove to me that I could be seen and heard. I dared to ask her to reach out and touch me, so I could know she had really seen me. She refused to touch me. I was even more afraid and asked her more and more urgently: “Touch me! Please touch me! Then I can know where I am and where you are and feel safe here in the dark. Then I will have someone to hold on to.”
Still she refused to touch me. I wept and wailed; I sulked and I shouted that she was wicked to refuse me this simple thing; just to bother to reach out for me, to show she cared about me! Still she waited for me to do something, but she never said what. I reflected upon this and realised that to be touched was very painful!
I had never felt such pain before. The wounds had been hidden for so long that they had festered. I felt the wound that I had inflicted upon myself and felt sorry that I had not taken care of my skin and allowed it to heal. How I needed healing balm now and loving care to heal the wounds that now felt so raw!
I cried out for help and care - I longed for someone, anyone, to give me a healing touch to make things better. I lay there in pain and no one came to me and I longed for someone to care enough to reach out to me. No one noticed. No one cared enough about reach out to me in my pain.
Then I took my pain, which had begun to heal a little, to my friend and told her how it was that no one came to me and no one cared. I wanted so much for her to reach out to me. I wept when I told her this, for I knew that she would not reach out to me - but at least there was kindness in her voice and she did not turn away. And in her kindness I saw that she understood how much it hurt that no one came to me in my pain. I saw her understanding and I knew then that I saw her.
I knew that at last there was a light to see by and surely she was making it! I tried to thank her for making the light for me to see, but she did not want my thanks. She said it seemed as if I had made the light for myself. How could I have made the light for myself? I had not made a torch for a long time, for my scalp was too sore, my hair was thin and my mouth too dry.
I looked about me and saw clearly; saw the faces of those around me. I saw them and knew they saw me, for the world was lit from end to end!
I had found the light by simply opening my eyes.
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