Lucy the Nun With the Green Socks

Public Domain

Lucy the nun with the green socks
saw me hugging the oak tree
that summer I
hibernated in Spartanburg. She
didn’t really see me. She
was close to blind. I
felt lost in that wood,
less than the tiny insects
humming in my ear.

Rilke says we have to believe we matter,
the tree, blind Lucy, me. We
must believe the universe
hasn’t forgotten us. Take
heart, he says. The
form of a bear, eyes
like burning coals, may
come knocking under a white moon
to alert us to something
awaiting that will rock us
to our core and send us
running down a just-what-
we-dreamed-of path. The
least likely thing may happen
at any moment. A
white bear may lay his paw
on our arm guiding us
on a journey, blowing open
our world like a window. We
must believe that this bear
under starry sky and low moon,
when wind rustles through the pine,
may rattle our door lock,
summoning us if we listen.

Years later, I toss clean socks in a basket,
reminding me of Sister Lucy and her green socks,
when outside my door, the sound of knocking
stops my musing. A
guttural voice urges, “I heard your call. The
door swings wide open. Walk
blindly like Nun Lucy,
climb on my back; we
go to the woods.” I
open the door carefully
and a bear, white coat
glittered with snowflakes,
growls, “What holds you back? Get
your things and move!” Tremendous
courage and abandon comes
with letting go, but the music
of the night wind, the snow like a milky ocean,
the sky, stained dark as wine, compels me.

Life could become wildly different. Am
I ready? Hoping for a little blind luck,
willing—no matter the cost—
knowing nothing will happen if I don’t, I
tug on my snow boots,
climb aboard and he springs for the wood,
mist and snow swirling so fast I cannot see ahead. I
gasp for breath; only the raging in my heart
gives me strength
to hold onto that thick white fur.

We reach a frozen river
and the bear plunges in,
penetrating the icy heart of the river. I
lose my grip, flounder near the shore. Rumi
says dive in and swim hard
towards the fur drifting with the current. It
floats by so dive in, grab with both hands. Accepting
the gamble, the risk of reaching
through ice, I thrash for dead center. Rumi
Promises the bear will ride me home.
Breaking apart in the icy river, I
taste the water and rise up fully awake. Alive
as the bear, I tackle it, fighting for its gift. The
bear dissolves, the living river,
the ice, the impassable forest.
The raging in my heart, the
bear in my heart, I carry home.

Read an interview with the author Susan Evans