My Writing. My World.
As many stories do, this one starts with a cute guy.
But this story isn’t actually about the cute guy. It’s about the sport he is passionate about and introduced me to.
The sport that did what little else could — it calmed the overwhelming anxiety I started experiencing about six months into the pandemic. Anxiety that I have never experienced before in my life and that has kept me isolated and — as I like to joke — almost feral.
Golf soothed that anxiety…and my soul.
Sunday mornings are for coffee and daydreams.
The kind that have me wondering about slow love.
Knowing glances over our steaming mugs,
Me baking scones for you, and you feeding me a bite of your bacon…
I wonder what you will look like,
Although that’s never mattered much to me.
I care so much more about what your soul feels like,
And how connected we are…beyond the day-to-day activities.
“Sometimes when you are quiet, it feels loud to me,” my friend messaged.
That comment from a week or two ago has stuck with me.
Even though I still haven’t responded to the message.
Even in my ongoing silence.
A silence not meant to keep others out, but to protect what is left within.
To guard the little that remains.
Keeping myself safe because it no longer feels safe anywhere.
A friend of mine admitted to me recently that he had judged me when I told him I was having anxiety about reintegrating back into society after the pandemic.
For saying that I felt almost feral and perhaps even a little agoraphobic — and not at all sure how I was going to prepare myself for leaving my house on a regular basis again.
Her battlefield was soft and cozy,
Pillows and blankets strewn about,
Awaiting each and every soul who needed comfort…
Most often, her own.
I am done.
Done with the not-enoughness.
Done with trying.
Done with the hurt.
Done with all the tears.
Done with the heart-searing pain.
She took one hesitant step,
And then one more…
Wishing she felt more sure of the path before her,
But trusting her heart to show her the way.
It had not led her astray so far.
But never her own.
I felt you all week.
Your pain. Your anguish. Your heartbreak. Your loneliness. Your desperation. Your hopelessness. Your disconnection. Your love. Your need.
I felt it all.
Because my heart is your heart. I feel what you feel. And as I am here for you, I also know that I need to hold you from within the boundaries that my giant empath heart needs.
Her solitary heart.
She is bigger in her capacity to love than most other hearts she knows.
She can love those who hurt her. Especially those hearts, because she can feel their pain, pulsating through their battle-weary bodies.
She can love those who wish her ill. Because she knows it comes from a place of their own hurt and they are still doing only the best that they can in this moment. In every moment.
