Forgetting And Remembering

I woke up hungry this morning, but deeply hungry. My usual banana and coffee did nothing to assuage the feeling of emptiness. A bowl of cereal made it possible to walk with the dogs, but the sense of lack was still with me. I have put menial tasks  ahead of this blog, not wanting to write of restlessness  or discontentment. Each time I approached the keyboard, I faced the emptiness – my mind as filled with longing as the rest of me. No words would come; no words could express my present state of being. And they still can’t. For I am a secret from myself; I cannot share what I don’t yet know. Even as I may manage to fill this page, the door will stay locked, the mystery remain hidden – until…

I wrote the above three days ago, and I long to write that things have changed, but if any thing, my state of longing has intensified. Last night I lay wakeful, my belly growling with unease. I have written that my body has been wanting my attention. This still seems to be the case. My inclination is to say: “Be still… Be quiet… Just let me get on with life.” But we continue to be at odds, my body and me, regardless of my recent affirmation of my sensual side. I slipped away too quickly from  that blessed awareness. That day of glowing sweetness  seems forever ago. I guess my body is truly disappointed.

It waxed so hopefull as we moved together through that afternoon, awake to breezy warmth caressing sensitive skin. The park where I walked with the pups was a lush green envelope into which I was gratefully received. I belonged. I remember belonging, not in an abstract way, but fully alive to the physicality of my relationship with trees, birds, water. Substance of one was substance of the other. The sun-warmed bark of tree was more than visible. I felt its rough substantiality – and the feathery green foliage newly sprung from their extremities seemed to reach and touch and stroke without reserve the woman present in their midst. Yes, I remember being lover to the trees, and knowing the exhilaration of a warbler’s flight. The eager lapping of the waves against the shore was titilating and delicious to the earth and me. And I was not afraid of what I felt. Let me not be afraid of what I feel.

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