Days I Can Trust

Clouds in the Mountains

The first rainy day in weeks. This has been a glorious summer – heat and sun spread out across July and August. And today I come in under the rain: the whole weekend to myself.

It is quiet here in my new home. And it is not just the quietness that rain offers, or the quietness of listening to music alone or drinking a glass of wine as evening arrives, although all of this is contributing to the quiet. The quiet that is here is a quiet inside of me. It is a quiet that I’m still getting to know—it comes from a long time of hurting, of letting go, of settling into the space I exist within, it is a quiet that comes not only of knowing myself better but of trusting myself more. I gave myself the whole day yesterday to exist wherever I wanted, to let my body move me through the hours without plans or goals or projects to pursue.

This way of being, giving this amount of space for myself, still carries great novelty. I awoke and spread my yoga mat. I stretched and meditated. I’d had ideas I might hike or drive out of town to some new place I’d never been before. I ate breakfast and crawled back in bed. My first weekend in my own place since I left and returned over four months ago. I fell asleep and slept until 1:30. Everything was delicious about the sleep – the light streaming in, my body wrapped in soft sheets, sinking into my feather bed, and total clarity that this is what my body wanted, needed, and my whole being accepting this.

I’ve begun to wonder if becoming in love isn’t something that happens in a flash of lightning, but something that emerges slowly, painfully, tenderly as we come to know someone, come to accept their presence, their needs and desires, even when they are other than what we imagined we wanted, imagined we would need to be safe and secure. I have lived almost three decades, still a young woman most people would say, and it has taken this long for me to begin to know and love this girl that I am, its taken me until now to open the doors and windows of myself and to give air to what has been here all along. A home for me to grow up inside of, to learn within, to experience the pain and grief from, a place from which to die in the end and over and over again along the way.

After sleep yesterday I drove out to Mirror Lake, walked to the beach and swam and swam—my body kept carrying me further and further—I went slowly, I stretched my arms and legs into the weight and motion of the water. I floated on the water and listened to the world beneath the air, I gazed at the vast sea of blue and cotton clouds above me. Who knew this existed right here below and above me, if I only opened myself to it? In the late afternoon I slept more, I biked out of town and back, lied in bed and read, sat at the kitchen table and read. So this is it? What I’ve been waiting for – days that are my own. Days I can trust. Days that feel like home. Remind me when I’m no longer here that this exists. Remind me when my mind is rushing me on to some undefined critical point in the future that this day happened, that I lived it, that I still carry it in my body and can return to it.

This post is an excerpt from a book I’m working on. This entry was written on August 14, 2005.

This post is part of the series The Late Summer Garden of Listening and includes the post Tiny Little Pixie Girls.

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{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }

Tonio September 9, 2010 at 10:07 pm

Your writing is like poetry, only better, as it allows even a ignorant fool like myself to feel the depth of your experience, and know it as my own.

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