Waning Season

growing shorter everyday

The song lyrics are still coming on, hard and fast as I sit up each morning to join in the hum of activity I hear out my backdoor. Movement and stillness punctuated by the chatter of birds and squirrels burying nuts for the winter. This fall might be the first one I’ve really seen and somehow am beginning to understand. I’m finally free. Untethered and wide awake, first it felt disorienting as I struggled to find which way was up. Now I can relax into knowing that up is no longer relevant, it was an idea I used to gasp for air. Nothing is defined, we move through this miracle of life filling cups and checking boxes, forever busied with a task. If only I can _____ then it will be time to rest. Time and expectation of time balloon into an existence spent running but never arriving. The space and the stillness that is available to me is such a gift. Knowledge that I am loved is a waterbearer to my thirst. I tell myself everyday the truth of my heart’s desire, and I am not lost in the shuffle. Building intentionally, each piece of me is grown fresh from the soil, life ever coursing and all the while questioning why. The questions now are joyful now, born of curiosity without fear.

I really don’t know you, old friend, but I remember what it feels like to sit beside you and look at the stars. I remember the moments like fuzzy photographs in a scrapbook of my life before time began. My favorite thrift store shirt of that summer, a purple bandana, years mixed into songs.

Living inside of my myth- thinking that others are judging and disliking me- is more comfortable when the unknowing sets in, than the alternative which is to believe that everything is ok or that I might be worthy of someone’s love.

A pile up of false starts lately, the pull of the past arriving in delicate packages of desire. The dream forgotten, willfully deemed irrational, irresponsible and just plain silly. The possibility is met with excitement and anticipation. I remember each of you so clearly, even when I can’t remember me, the beacon of salvation in your eyes. Now here you are, plain as day, a gift unwrapped slowly.

I heard from an old friend recently. His name popped up on my phone and I blinked twice, wondering if somehow it was a mistake. We haven’t seen each other in over a decade, yet I passed over his name multiple times since then, saving the contact, not willing to let go of the dream. I was a different person then, a baby really, still banging around the world in anger and taking all that I could get. Not so different from my middle aged self, in some ways. So there he was, the letters spelling an unknown gap of each of our histories. The need for connection drives me, and stoking the flames of the dream is always exciting, why wouldn’t I say yes? The retaliation of my brain is immediate, there are about a million reasons why you shouldn’t say yes, dummy. It’s been forever, he doesn’t know anything about me or who I really am. The romanticized version of me will never hold up against the harsh reality of what 25 years of booze and heartbreak looks like on my face, or my ass, or my cynical scared and saddened heart, beating its wings against the glass of today. This also goes nowhere, and it is not the now here of newer muddier dreams.

We talked for a month and finally I arrived at his door, smiling, and we embraced shakily like two people reaching out across 25 years, grasping for the unseen on the other side of time.

So, it went just like a normal thing, a drink, a dinner, a hand touching slowly then faster, then breathing in the darkness of early morning. His eyes woke hopeful and we showered together, he made us coffee, and we continued the unraveling of slow painful separations punctuated by swift and bewildering changes. Each of us losing our pack and fighting off the inevitable arrival to where everything is old. I could have stayed in that chair forever, I would be back there now if I could, laughing into his eyes when they crinkle at the sides. The dream permeates everything, without scent or reason, clinging to my clothes and hair.

The worry and repeating the words of acknowledgment some weeks ago did nothing to diminish this feeling now. It’s here. Stinking and tossing out obvious answers to the question in every detail. The bottom of the hill seeming now very plain, without virtue, and chilly in the shade of its own swell. Will my ridiculous ego ever be satisfied? Reading my failures into every text, subtext, and things not said even become ammunition for the anticipated fallout of my insecurity. The lie remains. Now unchecked and untreated, it languishes laid bare, basking in the sun of false evidence. Growing more luxurious and hungry as each day comes on shorter than the next. The countdown to balancing, weighing the darkness against the light. The only real truth I can ascertain now is that none of this will last. Permanence is the illusion of safety I can no longer entertain, even in my soberest of moments. Without provocation my thoughts turned to suspicion and doubt, questioning his character and relationships, searching frantically for the reason I must flee. Even while it was happening I knew it was irrational and self indulgent, but I couldn’t stop the onslaught until I pressed hot tears from both of my eyes, summoning a shoulder shaking release, weeping to settle my sad depleted nervous system. Will I ever feel safe again? Is there a world where I can be with a man and trust him with my heart? I’m not sure.