...rough and grainy still...
I feel grounded, here.
Calm and centered but also somehow expansive.
Connected.
...but when I close my eyes and feel you rushing by...I suppose this is my happy place. Though it feels too sacred for names. It's just...my place. I like to think of it as a gift my higher self gave to me years ago - before I knew anything about "time travel" or any other selves or any of the fantastic things the human brain can do. And anyway, I often forget to pay a visit to my place when I'm a tumble of its opposite. Frantic. Distracted.
Disconnected.
...I know that time brings change, and change takes time...Sometimes I'm a river stone, tumbling in the violence of the water, trusting that I am becoming. (I will be the person to create 20k for Life Coach training; my golden egg. It's the most money I've ever made in one lump some, by myself, in my life. It doesn't have to make sense—and doesn't—to friends and family; I am excited to become the kind of person who can do that. The kind of person who did do that. I want to meet THAT Stepper.)
Sometimes, I'm canyon limestone. The wind is whipping away at me, and I don't know if I'm going to become a sturdy but delicate arch, or if there is just not enough of me left, and i will crumble away to insignificant rubble. (So many women in my neighborhood feel lost and lonely. So many need a friend - but what that means is so subjective. I love them all so much, but my love doesn't seem to reach them. Not in any way that matters. I try not to make that mean that I am not enough. I was asked to lead. I was asked to be the representative of Christ. I am so flawed, so...Stepper about it all. It's not the ones who have made me the enemy—that's never about me, I know. Thank heavens. It's the ones who slip through the cracks. I'm so so afraid of those cracks!)
Sometimes I am a sandcastle against a Tsunami. (The days I long to stay in bed. The mornings I am tempted to drown my phone and take to the hills just for a stretch of peace. The housework—and the regular work—that suddenly become monumental and inhumane. When did switching the laundry over deplete me so completely? When did I lose interest in my book? where did I leave that desire to paint? Where did I put my passion? It must be around here somewhere...under one of these piles of later...later...later...)
...sometimes raging wild; sometimes swollen high; but never have I known this river dry...But always, at the end of it—whatever form IT takes each time—I am okay.
I'm okay.
I like that I can trust that.
Because I know Stepper; I know who that is. Deeper down sometimes than I can immediately access...but I know that girl. The hot and cold of her. The shape of her moods and her quirky sense of humor and her delight in sudden bursts of beauty.
She gets really self conscious about how her brain works. It finds beauty and meaning everywhere, but is also hyper analytical and so logical that often she misses nuance. She is anxious to never miss the subtle joke, but is fairly sure that 70% of the time she does; and her people sigh and give up because it's easier than having to explain.
She loves teaching, but conversationally. She hates presenting - but only because she loves it so much until afterward when she watches the replay in her mind and realizes she came off insufferably didactic.
She loves words. Oh how she loves words. The power of them. The art of them. The way some of them feel in her mouth. But...oh how she hates when the drive-through kid says "there's that". Wasted words. And she punishes herself for being such a good noticer of things she should be able to let go. And everyone assumes she's good at word games just because she loves them, but she never wins.
And she always has so much to say. So many astronomical feelings and ideas erupting out of her all the time—even when she's dreaming—but she never has anything to contribute to a conversation.
So...odd, yes. Difficult, yes. But also okay. Always okay.
...and when the sunset comes my prayer would be just one: that you might pick me up and notice that I am just a little smoother in your hand...I need the smoothing polish, I've realized. The closer I look, the rougher I get. I'm caverns and glaciers and...when did those wrinkles happen? Oh, please...PLEASE let me carve smile lines in my face, not worry lines.
Almost 40, and I still don't know exactly what kind of stone I am.
I want the balance. I need the outlet.
I want the words back.
Quotes borrowed from the song "Rolling River God" by Mindy Gledhill.
