Sometimes it is simply easier to live with the absence. 

My friend—dearest and longest of my life.  My soul sister, truly.  To see you again is as though no time has passed, and yet so much has happened. 

I have not allowed myself to think of how much I have missed you, and for how long. 

Our entire relationship, practically, has been like this.  Certainly, there were times early on that we spent a lot of time in each other’s company.  But for much of our relationship, you have been far away.  Perhaps I should have followed you, but I had neither your resources nor your courage.  For a variety of reasons, it was not practical for me to follow you on the winds on which you have drifted to and fro.  And now that you are anchored, firmly rooted in a single place, it would seem that I cannot follow you there, either.

So, I have stayed here, this quiet constant, awaiting your increasingly infrequent visits, to spend scraps of time in your beloved company.  And such beloved scraps they are.

You are one of those dear, wise people, who have remained exactly the same, even as you have changed so much.  I love seeing you as a mother, to three beautiful children—so innocent and pure and lively.  I love listening to you speak of the path that you are following, the wisdom it has brought you—and the wisdom you have brought to it.

Perhaps it is simply the case that our collective wisdom, precious and rare, must be scattered widely.  There is not enough of it in this world for it to be hoarded jealously in a single place.  We must each, independently, gift our separate worlds with the treasures we have carefully gathered and cultivated.
But maybe, one day, we will come together again, and the single beads of time that we have shared can be joined into a necklace.  In the meantime, I will carry on. 

Of desire, you've carted off
The lion's share of mine
By your sudden withdrawal 
And long absence.
I'm waiting for eternity to begin
It would seem.
I did not think the sere mellower
Would come for me so soon.
I thought we had more time-- 
More time to be foolish,
More time to be reckless,
To be wide-eyed and dreaming
Of brighter destinies.
The overlook has its own monotony,
Once you've become accustomed to the view.

I’ve given up on people it would seem, for the most part. I can’t imagine that there would be anyone with whom I would feel comfortable and safe enough around, and who I would like enough. 

Maybe I live in the wrong place. But maybe it’s just me. I’m not sure if it matters anymore. It feels like this is just how things are going to be. I’ll live alone, work until I die, and get almost nothing that I would really want in this lifetime. Not even the consolation of travel. When will there ever be money enough to do such things? All the gains I make are eaten away by life events. I never seem to catch up—with anything, work or money, even though it feels like I labor more and longer by the year. 

This is a very dreary set of thoughts. 

I’ve been trying not to think of any of this, lately. Have been trying to be happy with things as they are, which has basically meant forgetting about all the things I want that are out of reach. Even to crack open the door to those thoughts pricks my heart, and the tears flow, trickling down my cheeks, as they do now. 

Let’s face it. I can’t stop thinking about him. I know he’s not as wonderful as my memory has made him out to be. But to this day, no one else seems even remotely interesting. I know that it would not work out--that the problems that caused him to turn his back on me would only manifest in other ways were he somehow, miraculously, to return. It doesn’t seem to matter much--only a little around the edges. 

His decision to handle things like that—to break things off at all, even now, seems incomprehensible to me. Perhaps that’s because I didn’t really know him. But even in the context of what I did know of him, it didn’t make sense. I felt wary of him—his tendency to disappear for a bit, between times of conversation and connection, was always unnerving. Even though I was blindsided by the suddenness of his rejection, I wasn’t really surprised. But he had always seemed to be a good-hearted person. And he had what seemed to be good—or at least non-nefarious—reasons for disappearing from time to time. Clearly he was having mood issues. He was struggling with his energy levels. It didn’t seem to be because he did not like me—more that he didn’t like himself. 

And maybe, in the end, that’s the explanation. In fact, I think I know that it is. Because nothing else even begins to make sense. 

I wish he would let me speak to him. Even now. I wish he would trust me enough to let me in. I don’t dare reach out again. I don’t want to be a crazy stalker who won’t accept no for an answer and can’t respect personal boundaries. His silence has been, as they say, deafening. 

I can still sense him. Still feel the presence of him. The shape of him. His shyness. His sturdy intelligence. I can see him--his face, his expressions, the way he moves. I can hear his voice in my mind. It’s insane. How can I remember, so clearly, what I haven’t seen or heard in nearly ten months? He has no idea. And probably wouldn’t believe it if he did. No idea, that after all this time, he matters this much to me. I want for him to be happy. I just wish that I could have a part in that somehow. But that is not the world I live in.

So history reiterates itself. Everything different, and likewise all the same. Another heartache, another year. I've read again all I've written here, and it could stand in for the present just as well. The same messages, hopes, tremblings, fears. The same self-told wisdom and warnings. You'd think I would learn.

Different, but the same, but different. When will I stop being surprised by the waywardness of my heart? I rein her in--tell her calmly it's for our own good. But she is an idealist, despite all the cynicism and practicality I can muster, and without warning she gallops off to seek and nestle against the true self of another, all evidence that might dissuade her notwithstanding.

She is in love again, and it looks as hopeless as it always has before. Does she only love those who cannot love her in return?

There is no way
to keep the wind off your neck,
except, perhaps, in sleep.

I would have danced
were I not already full
to bursting with the throb
and thrum of God
pulsing from the pot
belly of a
drum.

But there was no space
left for dancing
in my heart of hearts.
There is no place for souls to linger
in quarantine from
the defiling relentless rush
of mad busyness
after such transcendence.
No safe holding tank
for souls scrubbed clean
with wood and leather--
Germ-free and ecstatic.

There is no way
to keep the wind off your neck,
except, perhaps, in sleep.

It is impossible to discern what may have gone wrong. Was I living too long on oatmeal and cotton candy? I struggle to drag myself beyond the confines of my hermitage, where it is clear I have stayed too long. I can only hope that tomorrow I shall be strong enough for my daily labor, and shall be able to put aside both despair and longing.

Why so soon must appear the thwarting of hope that threatened to burst so brightly despite all attempts to temper it?

I'm discovering for my own part that happiness can be a matter of the choosing. And that personal inclinations are not fixed, but malleable entities, which are capable of significant twists, even complete double-backs when the occasion calls for it. A person can choose to like something they were once not so enthusiastic about, and it would seem that the converse is also true--that a person can choose to dislike, or at least to shun, something they once thought adamantly they could not do without. Eventually the choosing, which begins as an awkward struggle to bend oneself in a direction seemingly contrary to the natural grain, in the right circumstances, can produce and cultivate positive sensations so natural, that one would wonder--and often does--exactly where the point of struggle was. Why was it so difficult to choose that which would have ultimately been the remedy for so much striving?

I fear that I talk too much. I do this mostly when I'm nervous, anxious, or otherwise stressed, but anymore, it has practically become the norm. It's as though I'm frantic to be heard--to be understood. But, then I panic with the sudden realization that I'd far rather not be fully understood. I'd far rather cherish my secrets and magic than have them vulgarly laid open before the gaze of all.

A wise person speaks but little, and does not feel so intensely the need to be understood, if indeed at all. I know I am far from wise, and forgive myself for it, and yet, I wish to be wise.

Sin is but missing the mark. I am, at once, not as I should be, and yet everything I am able to be at this time. One day, I shall know better, and shall not strive so any longer. One day, I shall know balance.

Reason's inexorable commentary causes Emotion to shudder--to cower and cringe in humiliation. Emotion begs mercy of Reason, but Reason points to fact and past proofs, and in their harsh, unforgiving light, Emotion can only concede, though with heavy heart and weary feet.

Hope flees witless and starving.

Every second of every day, it's already over. It's been and done and gone. This moment, alone, is all there is.

Relinquish, relinquish, my dear. It is to your destruction you would cling.

It may be difficult, but you must set it to one side, dear. Not forget, per se--that would likely be impossible--but as though for safe keeping. Or better, like a delicacy that is best savored after a long wait.

Go about your life. What else is there to do?

Hope without expectation conjures up images of birds without wings or ships without sails. How can hope be made more than abstract without hoping for something. Hope without the thought of an object—a goal, is vain indeed. Empty wind, buoying . . . nothing.

But then, where is the hope of hope, when the reality of disappointed expectation thwarts its bright trajectory? Is hope merely the belief in that which is good, surviving against all odds? Or is it of the fourth dimension—a suffused but indirect light scattered over the nebulous, ever-receding future?

Or, is it simply the taking of joy in each step: the bursting juice of berries, warm feathery breezes, sunshine smiles? Is hope merely the belief that the world will continue to be there, when we wake up in the morning, and that there will still be loveliness in it to enjoy?

How do I quell this longing—this age old ache, that’s followed me so long? My emptiness is all I’ve known, and in it, I am, in a way, full. The more arduous task would be to release my illusion of emptiness and envelop the true vacuum without collapsing under external pressure. Indeed, the vacuum must increase, if the benefit of fullness is to mean anything—if only to carve out within me more space for its blessing. Here is where self-discipline would serve me well, but I have neglected it: even now, as I write these words, I’m suffering for lack of it.

My mind wanders so easily—so readily meanders towards that which I must doggedly turn it away from. I find that the temptation to surrender to thoughts which seem like blessed rain after a lifetime of drought can only be blunted by recollecting that what appears to be a cool clear stream could prove a sandy mirage--or worse, that grasping at the thoughts might even thwart the fruition of their inspiration. So, despite dryness, and the insinuation of sweetness, I must press forward and disregard both, until it assumes more substance than shadow.

Please, I beg you, do not intrude. Allow my soul to slumber in bliss. It does not wish to be awakened now, not even by a gentle touch. Only in sleep has it been able to find peace from yearning, and the rest is sorely needed. Let me retrieve, in my dreams and reveries, my own self, that I may live in strength and dignity--whether you touch me or no.

10.

Can you coax your mind from its wandering
and keep to the original oneness?
Can you let your body become
supple as a newborn child's?
Can you cleanse your inner vision
until you see nothing but the light?
Can you love people and lead them
without imposing your will?
Can you deal with the most vital matters
by letting events take their course?
Can you step back from you own mind
and thus understand all things?

Giving birth and nourishing,
having without possessing,
acting with no expectations,
leading and not trying to control:
this is the supreme virtue.

From The Tao Te Ching

Don't fear, little one. You have more help than you ever thought you could have. Cry your tears--it's okay. You're exhausted, and you carried the burden for as long as you could. There's no reason to feel ashamed.

I feel like a rubber band. I hope I don't break.

I refuse to be beaten by this. I will live and live well. I may walk alone, but it doesn't follow that my life will be less fulfilling for it. It shall be glorious--even if only I shall see it so.

God, why? The downhill spiral. Blind, and on the edge of a pit without knowing. The ground suddenly gives way, and I don’t know . . . anything. Everything I thought I knew turns upside down, and gets spattered, if not slathered, with mud. I too am covered in it, and fear I shall never be clean again. And though that may seem the least of my troubles, it is actually the grease which makes my desperate grasp and foothold at the edge of the abandoned well so tenuous and difficult. And it is that mud which will leave me feeling tainted and vulnerable, even after I muster all of my strength to pull myself out.

I shouldn’t look, but I do. I shouldn’t think about it, but my brain cells gather around it like iron filings before a magnet. If you looked closely, you could observe and diagram the lines of the field in those tracings—the lines of force. Much as I try to break the pattern—to manage the alchemy of conversion from iron to lead, the going is slow, and often tedious. I grow curious about the other side of the fence, and peek over again, only to see the same repetition of cold hard facts I saw before. Except I don’t always recognize them as such: Perhaps this time it will be different--perhaps there is something there I didn’t notice before, that would color all differently. But then memory beckons, and the icy whisper of reason takes hold of my ear. “There is nothing for you here,” the old crone hisses, in her cracked tones. “Can’t you see, fool? There never was. You only imagined.”

I would only be kidding myself, were I to look over the next fence with hope. It is more than likely there is nothing there for me either.

Things go in cycles. It is both the greatest comfort, and the most pedantic annoyance that this, too, shall pass.