fluidity *edit*
It’s funny, even now, that my first reaction is to panic. It’s my first instinctual reaction to something different, something I don’t understand or have no explanation for. That’s where my head goes, almost immediately. It’s ridiculous really, what we become ingrained to do, what we are prepared to accept, how bad we are accustomed to being treated, where we retreat to a fragile mind space, wondering what could have gone wrong, what could have happened between then and now to turn our world upside down, when the only thing between the two times is sleep. The difference is, now I can turn it off. Control it. Wrangle it like some kind of mental wild stallion – acknowledge its presence as it snorts, and stomps its hooves on the outside corners of my brain. It’s a beautiful creature, instinct. And I know that in time, he will calm – maybe accept a saddle or a rider, someday. He is no longer bucking around, kicking the walls of my pen, looking for an escape and a chance for freedom to run wild. He just stands there and looks at me now, snorting. I can acknowledge and even appreciate the beauty that he is, and recognize that it’s changing. It’s changing slowly, but all worthwhile change comes in time, not in big bang evolutions but in baby steps – the transitions from this to that. Careful awareness. Humorous tolerance. Something. The funny thing is, despite my knee-jerk instant reaction to things that aren’t even real, but perceived – I’m not afraid. These moments remind me of where I’ve come from, where I am and where I want to be. They are a reminder that there is not a catch-all cure to unlearning old habits, that snap you out of the lessons you learned all your life. To recover, to improve – to grow at all, is a choice. An every day decision that you will not succumb to the pre-dispositions you were taught, that you will choose your own sunlight, find your own hope – believe in your own happiness, and have faith. I don’t have to be a rock, every day. I don’t have to be strong, every day. It’s okay to not be perfect – and no one (anymore) expects me to be. I can have my moment of weakness, as long as I look up from its recognition with a mind to go forward, not back. I can’t go back anymore, and I don’t want to – that road is closed, eroded – gone. There’s only this, now – and only the future ahead. And I’m making it there, slowly but surely – sometimes the only thing you can do is take one step forward…and it’s closer than you used to be.
I think I learned a secret about love, recently, and it’s not something a lot of people talk about. It’s fluid and changing. And the key to finding it, holding onto it, and growing into it is to be as fluid and changing as it is. Love is like water – it rots when stagnant, collects debris, bugs, bacteria. In order to flourish, in order to support life and to nourish the world it has to move. Water is one of the softest and sweetest substances on earth – but it can cut scars into bedrock. If the grand canyon was made by a persistent river, perhaps there is still hope for me. Rivers may run, may stay in a constant direction, north to south, east to west or the reverse (how many times has a river changed direction, actually?) but they run. They don’t stand still. They cascade over obstacles thrown into their path, they move bounders, they cut holes and lines into the world around them. They forge new passages, yet unexplored. Love is like a river or an ocean that way I think. Oceans crash into the shore repeatedly, sometimes eroding the world around them, sending centuries old cliffs crumbling, then the tides come in and lick the fresh wounds with salt water cleansing, smoothing out the rough edges. These things take time. I have never been a patient person, but this is one thing I am willing to wait for. I want to see what this is going to make of me, and trust that I will not be swallowed whole by a deep sea monster, chewed up and spit back out on the shore of a forgotten, unfamiliar beach. For now, the touch is gentle, but it still pushes me. Still challenges me. I can feel the sand moving under my feet every time I venture a little further into her tide. Approach, touch, retreat. Its not a game, you see, but a playful moment of reckoning. I think she’s testing me, unintentionally. Or perhaps I’ve grown enough to test myself, little by little. I’m way past my ankles in this incoming tide, the water approaching my knees. I’m not swimming, yet, but I know what it feels like to be immersed by this water, to feel it all over me and to know it’s welcome belonging. She’s invited me in, see – not warned me where the drop offs are, and my feet are confident and cautious, finding shells and scraping the bottom for sting rays, so I’m not taken unaware. Not this time. Everything is a surprise these days – but my eyes are wide open and waiting.
some day I’m going to be as fluid as these waves and this tide is, as I sink into that. But by being swallowed whole by the ocean, it is accepting me – not losing my sense of who or what I am…the ocean will be different with my inclusion – just like I will evolve to breathing underwater, and the continual taste of salt on my lips, every time I turn around.
The funny thing is, this ocean isn’t gonna tame me. She wouldn’t want it to – she enjoys the wild. It will envelop me and encourage my wildness – but even the fiercest of animals come home to a safe place to rest, a shelter. She’s giving me the freedom in belonging, in the knowledge of a safety where my guard isn’t always up, I’m not always on edge. Where do we go from here? I’m not worried about the next step, I’m dancing on the step I’m on, living every day like its a beautiful, wonderful gift – and it is. And the answer to that question is simple: where do we go from here? Anywhere we choose to. One day, one sunshine, one breath at a time.