By Andrea Lingle

“Dilatasti cor meum, which says that the heart is expanded. But I still don’t think this is an experience of the heart. I think its source is much deeper inside…from the very core of our being.”
-St. Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, p. 98

“Intensity involves a combination of the vertical dimension of vivid awareness—the intensity of feeling vividly alive—and the horizontal dimension of openhearted connection—the intensity of relationship with other living being and even with the cosmos itself in some sense.”
-Wesley Wildman, Effing the Ineffable, p 183

John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”
Matthew 3:14

Seven steps, a landing, eight more steps. The stairs are oak, well worn, and clean. The handrail is solid and smooth; more than enough support for the climb. The landing looks out over the entry. The light has completely faded from the day, leaving you in the dim glow of leftover light. The darkness smells of flowers and coming rain. It’s like breathing hope. 

The basket of “What Remains” is under your right arm. During your climb it seems to have grown seven times heavier. Each stair becoming a struggle under its increasing burden. Your left hand tugs your body up each stair with the help of the railing. With a gasp, you heft the basket onto the landing with both arms. It sounds like iron plates clanking against stone even though the landing is carpeted and none of the things you kept are heavy.

Perhaps you are just weary.

The elevated landing runs along the length of the wall opposite the front door. The door is closed now, but the heavy oak bar that fits into iron hooks on either side of the door rests against the wall. In the glow from the open library door, you can see that a spider built a home between the bar and the wall. From the dust encrusting the loosened spindles of the web, you can see that the spider’s great grandchildren have flown from their eggs on silken parachutes since this barricade has last been used. On the floor of the landing is a thick rug. The pattern is blurred by the dim light, but its background is probably a deep blue: like summer twilight. Your tired feet sink in as you lean forward onto the railing, resting your shaking arms. There is a soft glow leaking under the doors at the top of the stairs. It beckons gently, but your eyes resist, settling on the space below where Grace and Love pace their floral labyrinth. Here, between places, you pause.

Not sure. Unsure. Assured. 

The sound of water, flowing like laughter, must be coming from somewhere above. It isn’t intrusive, but you can hear it, as indistinct as the light, murmuring further in.

The night is broken by a cough from below, sudden, jarring, forcing you back into what is. The couple you met in the library is closing up, leaving for the night. Your chest clenches. Will you know where to go? How to settle in? Which is your room? At the top of the remaining eight steps are several doors, all closed on lit rooms, rimmed around with a soft glow, except one. One door stands open an inch or two. 

You bend to pick up your basket, but even with the help of the railing, it is too much. 

It won’t hurt anything to leave it here for the night.