You don’t get it. Not yet. You don’t see it.
A loud, exasperating sound comes out with my breath.
This is what’s draining me. How many minutes, hours, days of my life have I spent consumed with this – some flippant remark you made and forgot or some deeper truth you must share to make yourself larger for others… larger than me.
My head has dropped in front of me, desperate, but I peek up from under my curtain of hair.
It won’t last long.
I’m floating back up to the top. It’s a slow rise. And here I go, giving you access to my mind when I should be focused on my breathing.
Let me get there, my friend. It comes here in this climb. Give me a second.
There’s sand in my mouth and salt in my eyes. It’s an underwater Wild West with tumbling seaweeds and jackaloping jellyfish.
But don’t you worry. This girl’s got a little Billy the Kid in her. Or so, she aspires to.
At least, a little bit.
A little bit Billy the Kid…
More like Popeye, dancing a jig.
Fists curled under ‘cause I don’t wanna fight. I know I’ll lose. Anyway, can’t you see my pretty face is just a waste? It’s supposed to be fun. See – I know!
Don’t stop me mid-album. Or worse – after a single line.
Straight-faced, you think I don’t get it. That I’m just trying to charm you to avoid the actual lesson. You think I’m part of the problem, too. Too soft. Too serious. Too lighthearted.
I can’t win. You won’t listen.
I act like I’ve given up, but you know I haven’t. I keep trying. Don’t we all? We’re so eager to be understood.
Feet tucked underneath me, I resettle my body for the job of communicating… in just the right way. Though, I tell myself in a whisper of patience, it’s up to you to hear it.
I’m transmuting something…
I’m taking these hurts and morphing them into lessons, into something of value beyond the physical. That process takes time when done right.
Have you forgotten your own metamorphosis?
Have you forgotten the layers underneath? Didn’t you ever have to eat away all the disgusting slime and sludge, knowing it’s nourishing you? Knowing it’s what must be done.
You can’t see what I do under all this webbing of gross, sticky stuff. I have a different vantage point you only remember from before I settled down, down to work.
That’s why I don’t feel so resilient. It’s a mess. But the longer I can tolerate this space… this uncomfortable, frustrating, angry space, the better.
I’m not going to fake it either, pretending to be calm and regulated when I’m not. I’m modulating, working around the discomfort of my own frustration.
I know it’s what’s right for me. So, I stop talking and eat. I eat and eat and eat thankful for what’s feeding me.
It’s really quite delicious if you just put it in your mouth and chew.
There’s beauty here, too. The sun shines in and sparkles in the dewy wetness everyone keeps rushing me to clean up.
Chew and chew and chew.
I’m eating as fast as I can, I shout with the zeal of Lucille Ball, and cram more in my mouth with a grin.