This, too, shall pass
Apr. 16th, 2020 08:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenstormIt's breakup season. The lake fills with meltwater, it rises, the ice floats and is jarred by the wind until it breaks and gathers and eventually melts and flows downstream.
The other day my hourglass broke. Piotr gave me that hourglass to remind me that all things pass, and that all things come again. I'm trying not to read it as an omen that I'm stuck here.
Josh has started saying, "I'm not sure if that narrative serves you". He picked it up from me.
Tucker is very happy to be quarantined with me, but when this simmers down a little bit he will go see his people back east, and then he will move away. Everyone is happy for my land in an emergency. Everyone is happy for me when they need things.
His fingerprints are all over Threshold.
I'm grieving the end of that relationship. I don't expect we'll go to zero relationship: he's a good friend, a valued lover, and we've done a lot of work together over the last few years. We may even emerge as anchors still, who knows? But it won't be the same.
And like all relationship grieving I want everyone vaguely relationship-shaped to go away and leave me in peace. I want to return to the things I can rely on to be there, things that feel familiar: fruit trees, tomato plants. Even the pigs are more new, more novel, than I really want.
I feel abandoned now; Tucker will feel abandoned if I take space now; I will feel like I wasted my last time to be with him in this way, afterwards; neither of us will have had the discussion we need, together, to mindfully develop the next step of the relationship.
So I grieve in the tiny spaces. When I do yoga there is grief in my body. When I see the green grass coming up I feel pain. When I look into the empty greenhouse and know it will be full in summer it feels like loss.
I'd always thought of myself as more aligned with Demeter than Persephone but this is a spring where sunreturn signals the grief of separation and the work of getting down to growing things.
It's a time when I want to push on things to see the whole structure topple. I want everything around me gone so I have the peace of dust and inevitability. I want to thrash around until I have no energy left, finally, resignation comes for me.
Someday, maybe, I'll write about what I'm losing. Hopefully I'll write about it from the stable platform of what it evolves into.
And now I'm trying to schedule Avi's next visit and all I'm thinking is: I don't want humans anymore.
The other day my hourglass broke. Piotr gave me that hourglass to remind me that all things pass, and that all things come again. I'm trying not to read it as an omen that I'm stuck here.
Josh has started saying, "I'm not sure if that narrative serves you". He picked it up from me.
Tucker is very happy to be quarantined with me, but when this simmers down a little bit he will go see his people back east, and then he will move away. Everyone is happy for my land in an emergency. Everyone is happy for me when they need things.
His fingerprints are all over Threshold.
I'm grieving the end of that relationship. I don't expect we'll go to zero relationship: he's a good friend, a valued lover, and we've done a lot of work together over the last few years. We may even emerge as anchors still, who knows? But it won't be the same.
And like all relationship grieving I want everyone vaguely relationship-shaped to go away and leave me in peace. I want to return to the things I can rely on to be there, things that feel familiar: fruit trees, tomato plants. Even the pigs are more new, more novel, than I really want.
I feel abandoned now; Tucker will feel abandoned if I take space now; I will feel like I wasted my last time to be with him in this way, afterwards; neither of us will have had the discussion we need, together, to mindfully develop the next step of the relationship.
So I grieve in the tiny spaces. When I do yoga there is grief in my body. When I see the green grass coming up I feel pain. When I look into the empty greenhouse and know it will be full in summer it feels like loss.
I'd always thought of myself as more aligned with Demeter than Persephone but this is a spring where sunreturn signals the grief of separation and the work of getting down to growing things.
It's a time when I want to push on things to see the whole structure topple. I want everything around me gone so I have the peace of dust and inevitability. I want to thrash around until I have no energy left, finally, resignation comes for me.
Someday, maybe, I'll write about what I'm losing. Hopefully I'll write about it from the stable platform of what it evolves into.
And now I'm trying to schedule Avi's next visit and all I'm thinking is: I don't want humans anymore.
