We can’t dance and skirt round the edges of this fire forever. The flames have been, for indescribeable amounts of time, licking away at our hairs and faces, chapping our skin and making us easy to crack, to cave, to break and scatter trace amounts of our blood about.
We thought, for a while: well, that was alright. But slow it is that we see reality. And the broken scars have never healed but have become scabs frozen in bad blood with infection rooted somewhere underneath. It’s come time to tear off the soaked and stuck on bandages, to get at the core of the damage.
I don’t think we ever get used to loss, but we learn that it comes around every so often. We never accept change, but learn we must to bow and bend to it. Never do we exactly rejoice in death, but learn that it will steal our breath, eventually.
My brow is bowing down. My boughs growing weak under the frozen droplets of icy rain layered atop my peak. My sap is all stored up in my core and my leaves have fallen, dried and dead, and exposed all my inner bones.
This is nothing new but the space in which it comes, of course, is a different one. A different safety to release. A different set of rules to escape. A different list of lines to cross out or avoid. A different road to another lonesome high place. From which, I’m sure, I’ll come into this valley once again — but at a different time and with a different face — in a whole new way.
Right now, reality is at the brink and I, arms spread wide, am ready to fall.
The pool below, I know, is not concrete and stone. Only the whole surface is sealed up tight with a layer of thin and jagged ice. I’m sure I’ll break through alright.
Hand in hand we can go, if you can’t go alone.
Just know that at the bottom, we let go.