The Journey of Sancta Sophia

The sorrow I felt was ever constant, bubbling just beneath the surface of my heart, my inner landscape an uncertain world, quicksilver ever evaporating and reforming in a mercurial menagerie. But this sorrow grew less as the days wore on, and I replaced each living piece of myself with a hardened block of stone. I killed myself, the self that I once knew. I sat content among my rocks and admired my stones, my boulders and my cliffs. I ached, but I sat alone.

One day, carelessly, I allowed a small weed of compassion to begin growing among the cracks in one of the smaller rocks.

And that was my mistake.

I did not tend to this little plant, but sat by with idle curiosity as it grew, content to sit strewn among the pebbles of my undoing. I watched and took no action as this tiny little flower blossomed, grew and strained toward a sun that hadn't touched that land for years. The flower grew. The flower lived. The flower died.

A swift and chilling breeze came soon after, blowing the skeletal remains of that little sun-seeking flower away. I sat and watched. I took no action as the seeded remains of the petals flew on the wind.

That was the first night the rains came. And with the tiny little droplets, a cool and subtle breeze stirred the warm, cloying air. The raindrops felt sweet, so sweet. The warmth felt good, suddenly not as oppresive as it had once been. I turned my face to meet the spray. As those raindrops, warm with the first kiss of spring showered my body and caressed my face, I came to realize I was crying.

And I did not know why.

With a loud crash and a startling clap of thunder, the largest of the rocks was swept away in the crash of a salty ocean wave that arose from nothing, springing from nowhere to shatter my existence. This ocean arose, the bitter product of tears long left unshed and pain long left untouched, buried beneath the stones and waiting to one day re-emerge.

I cried to the sky. I beat my fists upon the stones. All those emotions came back to me, with a rage, the kind of which had not been seen. Self hatred, and hatred toward those who had hurt me without ever even knowing. The ache inside my heart was immense. I scraped my hands on the sharp, rocky outcroppings that formed when my heart of stone broke into a million pieces.

I ached.

I screamed so loud to be heard, the winds no longer touching me with gentle fingers and a soft caress, those once sweet winds and rain now a bellowing gale. And for the first time in a long time, I felt.

I felt.

And what I felt was fear and anguish. The loneliness of a thousand nights spent in solitude and the hopelessness of a thousand more to come.

I do not know when I heard the whisper in my ear. I do not know when my tears could no longer fall. I do not know when they ceased, for they seemed endless. I did not know where my tears ended and the rains that wracked my heart began. I did not know her name, the kind and gentle mother who rescued me from the edge of that barren cliff.

She held me there for a time, and nestled me to her breast as though I were a small child. She took my tears, and kept my pain. She took all I had to give and more.

Sancta Sophia.

The name of the divine mother. She who once sat beside God himself, constructing the world with He in a playful manner and the compassion of all. She who walked beside Christ and she who was forgotten just the same. Sancta Sophia, a figure long since relegated to the worlds of fairy stories and child's tales, remembered only in darkened corridors and dusty manuscripts. Demonized and vilified in the eyes of her children, all of whom sprang from She, the first to be loved and the first to be hated.

Be Not Afraid.

Her whispers came in soothing murmured tones as she carried by battered and broken bod across the ravaged landscape.

Do Not Shy Away.

I awoke the next morning in the landscape of my heart, that same place where I began and the same place I felt I would end. Where there had once been stone, there now existed a spray of fragrant blossoms. Where there had been a sea of salty sadness now sat a fresh, clear well of hope, compassion and love.

Her light was blinding.

And I fought not to squint against the harsh light of day. My eyes long unaccustomed to her illumination. I cried out as the warm rays touched my tender skin, shielded so long from the warmth by a layer of stone, dirt and cold.

Drink of me.

She said, an unseen force guiding me to her well. I kissed the ground, marvelling at each living thing, my hands touching the ground as a child does, exploring the world in the only way it knows how.

I knelt.

And drank from the well of Sancta Sophia. I realized for the first time I was thirsty, so thirsty. I was parched, my tongue rasping like the scales of a snake against the bark of a tree on which it hides. I was thirsty. I had not known what was missing, but here I found it.

I drank.

I lapped at the cool, clear waters, as gentle as a lover and as tender as a friend. I drank from the well of Sancta Sophia and felt as she.

Pure.

Unknown to all but those who seek her grace and wisdom. Known, but not tainted. Wise, but not spent. Bold, but not spoken. Kind, but merciless in her justice.

Renewed.

And my heart began to break once more. But this time there was no rock on which to break, there was no sea in which to drown.

And in that moment, I lived only for her.

Sancta Sophia, guide my hand.

"Sophia brings up her own children, and cares for those who seek her.
Whoever loves her loves life.... for though Sophia takes them
At first through widing ways, bringing fear and faintness to them,
plaguing them with her discipline until she can trust them,
and testing them with her ordeals, in the end Sophia will
...lead them back to the straight road, and
reveal her secrets to them. (Ecclesiasticus 4:11-18)"