Yield

This body, a filthy unattended room, cobwebs and mold repulsing mere bystanders. How could you deem this dungeon a temple? I will clean it for your visit. 

Hastily, my broom gathers accumulated dust into chaotic piles on the floor. My dirty rags cannot hold much more filth, rather they spread and increase grime on the surface of the walls. I am flustered. I need better supplies, perhaps better training. I have time, the calendar marks 10 days until your arrival. I promise myself presentability by then.

Five days pass, I have yet to buy a mop. I was working today and did not have time to research cleaning methods. I have five more days, and my schedule will permit time by then. My anxiety settles once more.

My mom visits, my essay is due, my brother needs a ride, I need to catch up with my cousin, the latest episode is on tonight. You are coming today.

I am ashamed at the awful smell permeating this space, this junkyard. Your knock beats the hollow of my chest, in obligation I rise. Regret draws down my eyes as I let you in, wishing I could allow you to remain on the doorstep. At least you would be spared the ghastly sight.

The fickle workings of man appear honest, able, strong; yet my hands can produce nothing. My tongue proves speechless under the weight of my own ignorance. My feet, embedded in this present ground with sure incapability.

I am crying.

Why do you struggle? You ask, taking the hand lying limp at my side. Coming close behind me, your body lines up with mine, harmonizing our movements. My heart leaps at the excitement of close and intimate contact. As your arms rise, mine rest atop. As you step forward, my legs advance in unison. Fueled by your strength, this weak stationary moves. Captivated by your proximity, I swim in the grace of your motion, the flex of your energy. You prevail me.

In one gusto moment this temple is holy. Dirt annihilated in purity’s potency, tools prove unnecessary and work meaningless. Transforming a floundering fool by beauty imparted, my only action is yielding.

You do not visit, you dwell.