Homecoming
Jun. 3rd, 2003 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormHomecoming is an interesting word. It's loaded with so, so many associations for me that the sound of it, the meaning of it, the headfeel of it, those are almost all completely opaque. It's like a big hit of significance without the signified concept.
I'm in a rambly sort of mood so let's see where something of an interrupted free-write takes me.
I came home to Abraham Darby right out the sliding doors with the most amazingly glorious poof of blooms ever. I think he misses me, trying to entice me back and trying to entice me to stay with all that lavish display. It almost smacks of desperation somehow, the neglected child standing up to say 'look at me!' as loudly as possible when he guns himself down in the halls of the school. Am I projecting?
Loneliness is obviously not something that's new to me and I'm wondering which parts of me might spring from some sort of need to be different and thus be noticed. The gardening at least I know is a part of me, it's a thing I do to me and for me, and when I think about it I really am very bad at doing things for other people only because I do them for other people. That's why my relationship with the Exotic has got so weird lately -- I feel I'm being presumed upon to do things simply for another person, not for a shared relationship or an increase in beauty or happiness but just because someone says they want it.
(The SO interrupts)
And now I'm thinking two things at once because his interruption spurred some worry and some thought on just how permanent this weekends-over-there thing is. I like things solidified, permanent -- I spend so much time with something or another shifting that I tend to try and harden things as quickly as I can to cut down on the number of uncertainties. Alas, tis so early...
And also I'm thinking of how I felt driving away and looking back and there was the Juggler sitting there, watching me and watching his newly planted vegetable garden. There are some things that are perfect in and of themselves and then there are some things that, when their setting is applied around them, just click into a sense of completeness, wholeness, of belonging. I don't know that any of this happened then, but it does make me think about it. I wonder if what I felt wasn't a half-measure of future deja-vu, of thinking that this will happen again and again, driving away like that with him waving...
The thing about having a lot of things in your life is that you're always leaving some of them for others, always juggling them and there's the ball leaving your hand while another impacts it. Leaving, passage, change; all these are necessary to be able to have more and yet sometimes I can't help thinking that change and leaving, loss, are inherently wrong. Even impermanently who would ever want to leave something good? And yet I'm coming to accept this, I know that I will come in time to the ability to glide gracefully between people's lives, my own and shared with others, to slip between them like a dancer or a minnow from one current to the other.
That is life, somehow: an increasing sense of grace and surety under whatever it can throw at you. I will never impress my bamboo with the aching flow of my transitions as it can impress me by the arch it makes silhouetted against the sky when the car pulls into the parkinglot and I first see it after the weekend. I wonder if that's not why it's so important to me in the end, something that is never impressed or awed but simply needs, simply, predictably, something that responds to set cues but does not respond to over and above with some sort of spiritual awe.
I am nothing to be placed on a pedestal, I am nothing to be held up as if I am a polished finished object. The clay is wet, the fingerprints still strong.
And now the SO has gone to work and I am alone with my plants and my own thoughts, with the parts of my life that are only myself and no one else's. Even if I wanted to give these parts of me away to some kind of commitment where they could be removed I could not. I have an identity now, a self which demands, commitment, which demands care, and I haven't the will right now or the desire to change that.
And so I wonder to myself, what is care? How do I care for myself? How do I walk gentle where need be and pound strength in where that may be necessary as well?
I am a sun-brown husk burnt dry and ready to be blown away. So much time in the garden and my hair is lighter in colour than it has been in years. I am a walnut without a meat, a husk that might blow away in the wind were it not so tough and shriveled. This is not loss. This is distillation to the essence. Loss of extraneous complications, perhaps?
It takes me many times to say goodbye, goodnight, on the phone before I end up going. This, then, is my first good night. It's a well-wish, you see, the way I part- unvoiced it's a request, spoken it's an imperative. Have a good night, you. Velvet darkness sing through your senses when the bed rushes up under you to take your weight and leave you floating, that's a well-wish. Joy and companionship, that too. Have joy and companionship. Have velvet darkness. Have a good night.
Love to you.
I'm in a rambly sort of mood so let's see where something of an interrupted free-write takes me.
I came home to Abraham Darby right out the sliding doors with the most amazingly glorious poof of blooms ever. I think he misses me, trying to entice me back and trying to entice me to stay with all that lavish display. It almost smacks of desperation somehow, the neglected child standing up to say 'look at me!' as loudly as possible when he guns himself down in the halls of the school. Am I projecting?
Loneliness is obviously not something that's new to me and I'm wondering which parts of me might spring from some sort of need to be different and thus be noticed. The gardening at least I know is a part of me, it's a thing I do to me and for me, and when I think about it I really am very bad at doing things for other people only because I do them for other people. That's why my relationship with the Exotic has got so weird lately -- I feel I'm being presumed upon to do things simply for another person, not for a shared relationship or an increase in beauty or happiness but just because someone says they want it.
(The SO interrupts)
And now I'm thinking two things at once because his interruption spurred some worry and some thought on just how permanent this weekends-over-there thing is. I like things solidified, permanent -- I spend so much time with something or another shifting that I tend to try and harden things as quickly as I can to cut down on the number of uncertainties. Alas, tis so early...
And also I'm thinking of how I felt driving away and looking back and there was the Juggler sitting there, watching me and watching his newly planted vegetable garden. There are some things that are perfect in and of themselves and then there are some things that, when their setting is applied around them, just click into a sense of completeness, wholeness, of belonging. I don't know that any of this happened then, but it does make me think about it. I wonder if what I felt wasn't a half-measure of future deja-vu, of thinking that this will happen again and again, driving away like that with him waving...
The thing about having a lot of things in your life is that you're always leaving some of them for others, always juggling them and there's the ball leaving your hand while another impacts it. Leaving, passage, change; all these are necessary to be able to have more and yet sometimes I can't help thinking that change and leaving, loss, are inherently wrong. Even impermanently who would ever want to leave something good? And yet I'm coming to accept this, I know that I will come in time to the ability to glide gracefully between people's lives, my own and shared with others, to slip between them like a dancer or a minnow from one current to the other.
That is life, somehow: an increasing sense of grace and surety under whatever it can throw at you. I will never impress my bamboo with the aching flow of my transitions as it can impress me by the arch it makes silhouetted against the sky when the car pulls into the parkinglot and I first see it after the weekend. I wonder if that's not why it's so important to me in the end, something that is never impressed or awed but simply needs, simply, predictably, something that responds to set cues but does not respond to over and above with some sort of spiritual awe.
I am nothing to be placed on a pedestal, I am nothing to be held up as if I am a polished finished object. The clay is wet, the fingerprints still strong.
And now the SO has gone to work and I am alone with my plants and my own thoughts, with the parts of my life that are only myself and no one else's. Even if I wanted to give these parts of me away to some kind of commitment where they could be removed I could not. I have an identity now, a self which demands, commitment, which demands care, and I haven't the will right now or the desire to change that.
And so I wonder to myself, what is care? How do I care for myself? How do I walk gentle where need be and pound strength in where that may be necessary as well?
I am a sun-brown husk burnt dry and ready to be blown away. So much time in the garden and my hair is lighter in colour than it has been in years. I am a walnut without a meat, a husk that might blow away in the wind were it not so tough and shriveled. This is not loss. This is distillation to the essence. Loss of extraneous complications, perhaps?
It takes me many times to say goodbye, goodnight, on the phone before I end up going. This, then, is my first good night. It's a well-wish, you see, the way I part- unvoiced it's a request, spoken it's an imperative. Have a good night, you. Velvet darkness sing through your senses when the bed rushes up under you to take your weight and leave you floating, that's a well-wish. Joy and companionship, that too. Have joy and companionship. Have velvet darkness. Have a good night.
Love to you.
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Re: The Unexamined Congealing of Patterns?
Date: 2003-06-04 10:19 am (UTC)When my need to anticipate, know, and control the patterns gets out of hand (ie starts to cause me stress) I listen to "Across the Universe" and do yoga. Then again, I'm a damned flake ;-)
Re: The Unexamined Congealing of Patterns?
Date: 2003-06-04 10:21 am (UTC)Re: The Unexamined Congealing of Patterns?
Date: 2003-06-04 10:26 am (UTC)