Alchemic Verse

Part of this journey is clearly to improve my ability to say goodbye. With its necessity, I didn’t expect this particular parting to be as difficult as it was, but I suppose it did represent a choosing of the self over the practical if now uncomfortable. As energy is conserved, I know the love I have for all I left in the rear view remains, if in a different shape, even while my feet have borne me elsewhere.

As established in the previous blog entry, I set sail again to another temporary location where I hope I can find some semblance of stability, home, and community in the midst of much inner and outer searching. The journey here was less lengthy compared to previous travels, but the destination no less uncertain to my senses. The weather has been a shallowly etched relief rendered in grayscale. Blustery winds have battered both ship and sailors, carrying the sharper aroma of seawater mingled with the warmer spice of fallen and rain-misted leaves.

The journey included a long winding bridge that offered views at each bend of the blur where slate water met pewter cloud, the rush of the breeze and waves making it feel like a true sail rather than a metaphor. Seabirds ushered us along the way, a winged retinue that formed a gliding escort as my shuffled library of music surfaced comfort sufficient to stymie the deep urge to sob buckets, at least until arrival, privacy, and stillness permitted.

The gravel drive I pulled into was littered with the remains of cut white roses, some blooms still intact underfoot. I stooped a moment to appreciate them, wondering where they came from, pondering the story of some delicate bouquet cast aside by a previous occupant.

The windows were thrown wide when I arrived that evening, filling the home with the same mysterious scent story that carried me here. In contrast to where we were prior, my dog settled easily into her cozy bed to relieve the damp. I slid each gaping pane shut to seal out the deepening chill and settled myself onto a plump and sizeable sectional to wait for the arrival of a victory pizza and salad.

In the cradle of the couch and in an attempt to observe my feelings without judgment, I felt as if I had two hands wrapped around a giant dial that controlled the shift between anxiety and anticipation, twisting hard to the latter while acknowledging the former. I don’t know what to expect from this new phase, and the magic in the first night’s air suggested something wondrous, ominous, portentous. I stared out the window at the graphite beyond while my mind chewed on lists of preparations for life here.

The first morning here was intended for actioning those obligations like errands, unpacking and meal planning, woven into preparations for returning to work. Despite my best intentions, the heaviness of the falling pressure of the barometer and of the realities of this next phase drowned large portions of the day with harsh or non-existent answers to the downpour of why’s that knocked out the electricity.

Kind words, receptive ears, and shared comedy tilted my chin above the surface of the flood long enough to make it through the hours without self-destructing completely, though I remain no more prepared for tomorrow/life here than when my gray eyes opened at dawn. Sometimes, this time, remaining whole until the lights come back on is enough.

Those eyes throb from the storms that rocked them today, so tonight is an early night to prepare them for scaling the several-week tall Mount St. Email in the AM. The intent somehow shares the same futile energy as trying to sleep early before the first day of school.

In more serious reflection, the grayscale in which the days have been presented seems to offer a real-life symbolic reminder, especially when repeatedly deluged by compounded confusing and hurtful losses – there is a lot of gray to work with between the black and white, the truth between the good and bad, the all or nothing, the extremes. Furthermore, it’s OK if all you manage to do on a dark day is trust that the lights will come back on.