Thursday night. Nearly nine o’clock. Messy deck. Hard drive on computer nearly full and nagging me. I want to put a email subscription on this blog.
I have been wanting to write about the past two years for awhile. I wanted to describe what they’ve been about. In the past couple years, I had some remarkably dark times. Dark, wearing times that I shared with only a couple people. Maybe more on that later. Maybe more on that awhile from now.
My lesson, wait, g/d, I dislike the word lesson. It sounds condescending. Trying to make more of something that’s just my corner of the world. Maybe. Turns out, it was a rather painful and wrenching lesson that was, was if I want to have friends, I must act like a friend.
I must trust. This, I found, was painfully difficult to do. For many reasons, of course. The companion to noticing that I needed to trust was noticing that I was/am highly protective, partly because I was/am vulnerable and sensitive.
I realized particular set of truths just shy of one year ago. I came to it slowly, haltingly, and in a rather ugly way. Ugly on the inside, anyway. I don’t think my suffering was too obvious. But, there I was in a near panic.
In June, I saw a woman who I like very much. We see each other about once or twice a year at events. I can’t call her a regular chum, but she’s certainly not just an acquaintance. I’ll settle on ally.
Previous to our meeting in June, I had last seen my ally in autumn, when we talked about doing the things that you feel best suited to, and allowing other things to fall away. In short, we talked about saying “no”.
When I saw my ally in June, I exclaimed, “Hello! You have been my guiding light of this year!”
“Funny, I have been saying the same about you,” she replied.
We talked excitedly the intervening seven months. I asked about the her work and her vocations. How were they going? “No, I’m not doing much those things. I decided to step away. It’s great,” she told me with a relaxed smile and shrug.
Sometimes, not as much as he used to, Jared combs my hair.
I arrive by his side with a pick, “Do you have it in your heart to comb my hair,” I ask. (And, yes, I use a pick which is much better than a comb.)
His answer is usually, “Yes, I have it in my heart to to comb your hair.” And, he will comb my hair.
Having my hair combed, no matter how knotty, is. Yes. It is. Is lovely.
I spend much of the time wondering about when he might stop and hoping he will not stop soon. I spend so much time thinking, that I started telling myself to stop thinking and just enjoy myself. Because he will stop.
Where is my pick?