The Field

Gayelene Carbis

Once I stood in a field very far from the city and said – 

Your will, not mine  

as if I was a believer. 


The sun beamed down with its strong, almost blinding light. 

I felt it on my back, stroking me, 

then enveloping me 


like a blanket of dandelions and daisies so that I fell 

to the ground, almost swooned 

as if drunk or dazed, and into


a long deep sleep that lasted probably no more than a minute. 

But when I woke, I’d let go, 

I’d surrendered. I rose up


and knew I’d stopped fighting my fate. I was able to breathe, 

all the tightness and tension had gone 

as if someone had come and lifted it 


from my shoulders, moved it through me to the grass and the ground, 

through my feet, my fingers. 

I walked back to the house 


where we were staying, my family who’d brought me there 

but who were somewhat like strangers. 

I said nothing, of course, of what had happened 


for my family are skeptical of anything that sounds close to God. 

So I held the sense of peace 

that had come over me 


like a prayer, and returned to the city, resolved.