by Elke Zilla
The night I began to write again
had been a rather dark night of the soul.
I was worried, fearful, and distressed—
chained to anxiety, strained by debt,
and the loss of nearly everything I loved.
A house—a home I could no longer own.
There was the still decline of my father’s kind and brilliant mind,
and weeks before Alzheimer’s had taken every piece of his life,
my own surprise diagnosis came along.
I fell asleep one night in prayer,
still on my knees in deep despair.
My entire reproductive system—gone!
And so I feared that my ability to conceive creative ideas
would also disappear.
But a kind of miracle occurred—
words of wisdom emerged in a dream,
spoken by a radiant being.
Truth be known, not an angel or a queen,
but an ancient old crone, floating along
the shore of a tranquil sea
just within reach of a beautiful beach.
She was sitting alone on a magnificent throne,
made of sticks and stones, branches and weeds,
in silent meditation, quiet contemplation—
of what felt to be, her own rich abundancy.
In fact, she was wrapped in a cloak of precious gems,
sewn along the crest of her hem.
Above the glistening glare of her winter-white hair,
a halo of silvery gold.
Yet as she came close, it was clear to see—
this woman was old, old as the sea.
A bent-over back, twisted and cracked,
like a witch or a hag.
But she moved through the waves with such poise,
such power and grace,
that when she approached,
I felt a stoic kind of majesty wash over me.
Like an angel. Like a queen.
The kind you find in a children’s poem.
Her face bore the beauty of all she had known,
each wrinkle a story, each shadow her throne.
“The greatest loss by far,” she said to the night,
“is to forget who you truly are—your own inner light.
Wake up to the truth you once knew,
the totality of life that is living you.”
As her feet kissed the ground, every corner of life
awakened to the sound—of music.
(Music Cue: “Dance Me to the End of Love”)
“Dance with me,” she whispered. “Let your soul take the lead.”
We moved like thunder, like falling rain,
like love, like madness, like joy, like pain.
And then, in a moment both fierce and serene,
a goddess appeared where the old crone had been.
And then she was gone.
When I awoke on the floor by my bed,
images of her still flowed through my head.
And the first words that I wrote:
“Goddess within the human skin, may your truth be known.”
Today, on the shores of Banderas Bay,
just within reach of Conchas Chinas Beach,
she meditates—
sitting alone on a magnificent throne,
made of shells and cones, branches and weeds,
in silent appreciation, and a quiet realization
of her own rich abundancy.
And every night, to her delight, the old crone takes flight—
where the music is live;
in the street, in the park, on the beach, in the bar.
A dancing queen lets her soul take the lead
The spirit of she that kept her cancer-free.
A story. A song. A poem. A truth.
That she alone is here to make known.
(Music Cue: “I Feel the Earth Move”)
