Lucy The Nun With The Green Socks

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 

white moon

to alert us to something 

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, 

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, 

deciding no matter 

the cost --

knowing nothing will happen

if I don’t -- I

throw on my coat, 

tug on my snow boots,

climb aboard. 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 power to hold on 

to 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. Breaking 

apart in the torrent, I

taste the water 

and rise up fully awake. Alive 

as the bear, I tackle it, 

fighting for its gift. The

living river, the ice, 

the impassable forest. The 

raging in my heart, the

bear in my heart

I carry home.

                   -Susan Evans