relationships
How long has it been now? It doesn't matter; you've stopped measuring time. Wandering through the woods together, joyful, complete, full of trust, each tree a story from your past, each animal that crosses your path a glimpse of the future (we will fly, we will leap, we will sing). You close your eyes and feel the speckled sunlight on your face through the undulating leaves. It is perfect here, and though you may stumble, it's a laugh you gladly share. But one day, you turn around, and they are gone. Probably nothing to worry about, you think. The minutes turn to hours and you can only surmise that, unbeknownst to you when it happened, you have taken different paths. But did they know? The forest grows dimmer, dusk is not far away, but still the magic remains, stored in the memories contained within the vitality of all living things. You sleep, but there seem to be no beds of grass left; a bare patch of rough ground is all you can find. In the morning it is no longer the Sun that wakes you, but the numbness of your extremities. The ground is covered with a thin layer of snow, and the green leaves have turned brown. You couldn't have dreamt of this the day before, but it feels as if you had known it was coming all along. You begin what is now a trek though the distances of space and time, land and days, hoping that your efforts will soon bring you together again, the cold quickly working its way to your core. But they do not, and eventually it dawns on you: You know where they are already, and all the wandering you have in you won't bring you together again. Hesitantly, you begin to walk in their direction, until you see it and stop, frozen in your tracks. A cabin, small fortress of protection, lit from the inside, more alive to you now than all the dormant life that surrounds you. It was next to you the whole time, but you had refused to look. You realize also that it is not the cold and terrain that you have been struggling against, but the unwillingness of your ego to overcome its fear of falling into a chasm of despair and having to spend long and arduous hours pulling yourself out, often slipping backwards almost as far as you'd climbed. As you stare ahead, entranced by this new realization and the possibility of overcoming it, the snowflakes fall silently all around. No, you tell yourself. Not this time. You push your fear aside and it sinks, hardening in the abyss between you. The path is inviting again. The only thing left to do is knock on the door, hoping to be let in, invited to sit beside the fire, and once again feel a warmth that can change the season of your soul. But you must knock loud, as there seems to be a commotion inside, and they may otherwise mistake you for a branch being blown by the wind, an old story simply wanting to be retold.
~
2017 - 2021