5am. I opened my eyes to a room of familiar objects, but an unfamiliar churning of feelings.
How had I become so alone? I asked myself on a daily basis. I had coffee with my confounded thoughts. My desperation for connection had me considering weird communal practices like, bookclubs. Isn’t that where people go meet people who have no place to go? They all read the same book, so they simultaneously have something to do and something in common. They meet in blandly painted, quiet, musty libraries and pretend to fit the meet-up into their bare schedules. Each, secretly knowing it’s the highlight of their week. I’m good. Thanks. It gets worse. You know those “suggested for you” events that pop up on social media? There is a plant propagation exchange coming up. There it was. The “interested” or “going” awaiting my click. I closed my laptop, quickly and with disgust. This was what my life had become and it suddenly panicked me. Where was the woman who, with minimal notice, and without overthinking, trekked the jungles of the Amazon? Or, boarded an overnight train from Paris to Madrid? When did I stop standing in line at the TKTS booth in Times Square, eager to see whatever Broadway show hadn’t sold out that evening? How did I EVER have over a hundred people in my backyard and ENJOY myself? Who WERE all those people? And, how did I pull off an event where THEY enjoyed THEMselves? When did I swap wild and impractical for predictable? Was I avoidant? Afraid? Tired? Had I become unlikeable? UnLOVEable? My next thought bubble was, “You gotta be f-king kidding me.” NONE of that woe-is-me stuff was applicable. Was it? WAS it? WAS IT!? Tears. A salty, wet, snotty sob was the hair in the icing on the cake. What plant should I take to the swap. And, how would I explain to these poor saps that I was merely on a hiatus from an intensely interesting life? Clearly, I would have nothing to discuss if not the truth of my nomadic nature. Free-to-the-public events were just what I needed to catch my breath from the wander-lust. Nevermind that the farthest I’d wandered in a hot minute was upstairs to organize a closet and back down because the enthusiasm had already waned. I am in the middle of nothing, really. And, I don’t want to talk about it. I haven’t wanted to talk about it for so long, it’s become scary. So, the less scary thing is to serve up my quivering vulnerability so that it has no hiding place. This lack of going, and seeing, and doing and connection has moments of deafening silence. Of those crazy-making tears. Of hours, unaccounted for. When I don’t know what I’ve accomplished between waking up and going to bed. Each day is a duplicate of the one before. I resolve so many tomorrows will be different, in some way. In any way. But, night turns to light and I feel it. That hollowed out place where once choices and options were vying for a spot on the calendar. This morning, I stared at the same laptop I’d closed when I saw the plant exchange invite. I sat down, before sunrise, and returned to a place that is profoundly sacred and familiar- the landscape of writing. If the mere act of arranging these words to form some ideas were a car, it’s hardly road-worthy. It needs a major tune up and the gears aren’t shifting smoothly. I’ve not been ok, and it’s a big, horrible lie to tell myself I have been. Getting naked with some of my most uncomfortable truths wasn’t on my schedule, today. But, neither was anything else. Little wins. Don’t give up on you, either. Peace, Warriors.
Tangled Lights 