Diaries

There’s the awakening when you realize the beauty of love, and you dream of it so strongly for yourself that it seems close enough to touch it.  Fantasy and imagination create.  It feels good, full of anticipation and hope and wonder and magic.  And you may camp there a while because who wouldn’t?  But after a while, as long as that takes, you realize that the fantasy and reality don’t match.  There’s the inevitable mental crashing and heart crushing where all the illusions that you once held onto and the ones you were also creating at that moment are shattered.  Then there’s the panic.  It’s like you’re in surgery, but you’re wide awake, aware of everything happening to you.  And the only thing that you can do is hold your heart wide open to receive this terrifying newness of vulnerability that you had never tapped into before. And not because you think your situation is going to change but because you know things can’t stay the same.  There’s no other choice but to go through the terror.  A new birthing takes place within and without. You travel through the foreign vortex.  As your vision adjusts to this new terrain, the secret part of you will want to revisit old reminiscences because in this new world you’ve entered, nothing new will have been created yet. In this new place, you may even try to recreate the old but will find it futile, as it will be like striking a match head that only produces sparks and will not ignite into a sustained flame.  And then you are awake– for real awake– because there is a journey ahead of you, and you realize you’ve stayed in a place far longer than you should have.  You experience everything as it comes anew.  Nothing old lingers, and you realize you are the better for it.  The old rags of paralyzing nostalgia unravel their hold. You walk with a small limp of regret for all the time you’ve wasted, but you see it as a gift, for you know it’s a persistent nudge, reminding you of where you’ve been– where you never want to return– and that you have far more mobility than limitations to move and be. You just want to live.  

Photo credit: Kultur Tava 

Today is my birthday, a big birthday, and all I could think about was you. While I got ready for work, I played Christmas music, the kind you would like because I wanted the day to be December. Because maybe that’s the month you think of me. I sprayed perfume on my wrists, one you mentioned in a store one day while we were shopping. I wore blue jewelry with some earrings you bought me along with the ring that I think was supposed to be a proposal of marriage. And as I drove down the road before exiting my neighborhood, there was a strange sighting of a cardinal– the brightest red. He stood between grassline and asphalt, undisturbed by the passing cars. Motionless in alarm by the female that played in the wet morning dew grass, he watched her, and I thought of you that day I played in the snow, when you took my favorite picture of me. Today I will restrain myself from contacting you because what I want I cannot ask of you nor can you give it to me.  

Photo by Nirav Patel

This summer, I’ve been trying– waiting– to get back to myself. Even when I laugh, I don’t recognize that part of me.  The laughter that comes out is erratic and untuned.  It’s been too long since joy was a true utterance of mine.  I forget that birthing, no matter how many times, is messy.  

Photo credit: Unknown

I watched a man walk down a hallway with his two little kids. I remembered what it felt like to have my foster girls and feeling like I had no real connection to them.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to attach myself for harm that I would be hurt as they weren’t mine and would be taken away, given back to their parents.  I thought for a moment what it would be like to be that man with my own children.  They are your kidneys, I thought.  Just because they are outside your body doesn’t make them lesser to care for but even more so outside our bodies.  

Photo credit: Freepik