giddy up says the potential of new love
The other piece I’m writing, the one titled The Art of Slowwwing that I spoke to briefly last week, is, as the title implies, going to take some time. So be it. I’ll keep filling you in on the harsh beauties that underly the everything until it’s ready for viewing :)
Moving along…
I met someone new. Someone who I’m excited about—a feeling I thought I’d lost the capacity to feel, but trusted I’d find when it also found me. For two whole days he didn’t message me after what I believed was a vulnerable, goood date. I made myself sick with worry. Is it because I didn’t sleep with him? Is it because he’s seeing other people? Is he ghosting? Maybe it wasn’t magical, maybe it was narcissism, maybe I’m dodging a bullet. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe I’ll hear from him any minute [stares at phone for uncomfortably long using mind powers to psychically ask him to message me; phone feels violated].
These unhinged feelings aren’t unfamiliar, which bothers me. I thought I was beyond thinking in such a neurotic way, turns out I am not. These feels pull me back into the young, reckless body of Samantha past, reminding me of ex-lovers who hurt me most, treated me worst, and gutted me open. The difference this round is I decide to stay with them. I write my feelings, I chew them, I regurgitate them. Mostly, I listen to them. They tell me much by not saying anything at all. I notice old wounds around the feeling of new love, a most vulnerable, susceptible happening, never fully scarred over and are now bleeding. Breathe, I tell myself. I breathe—and I smoke a lot of cigs which is contrary to breathing, but life is messy and contradictory and I don’t fight myself over that fact anymore. Dizzy with anxiety, I try to control something so I stare at my body in the mirror—fault it, judge it, fear what is to come as this new person sees it—sees me.
I pull myself apart. I let myself go into the fears of what if—of rejection, aloneness, and even death (what if I die alone before meeting “my person”? Worse, what if they don’t exist?) I don’t prefer being here in the mess of fearful what if, what if, what if? I begin to put myself back together, I let the what if’s spin in other directions. What if it works out? Even for a time? Even just for now? I can’t tell which is more daunting. Both require me staying with myself, foremost, with a new knowing that all safety is in a sense illusory. Piece by piece I fall apart and reform. All there is left to do is trust: What is for me is coming my way; what isn’t for me won’t stay. And this is okay.
I remember who I am, which is by never fully knowing who I am. Only that—I am, I am.
I am reminded of this quote:
“If we could see ourselves as others see us, we would vanish on the spot.”
- Emil Cioran
I remind my mindbody that others will see me how they will see me, that I mustn’t bend to fit a narrative I’m not even sure they know or tell themselves. That how I see myself is not how they see me. That how they see me has very little to do with me, and more-so to do with how they perceive. I can just be who I am—I can only be who I am, over and over, as I reposition myself in the expanse of possibility, like a bird migrating to warmth. Spring is coming. The temple is coming. I trust this just as I trust the anxiety—I let it surface so it may be free from my depths.
Then… he texts me, asking to hang out, I am relieved and elated. He knows not of the torment I put myself through, but maybe I’ll tell him at some point. What is there to hide? This is it, this is who I am. A mess. A quaking mess of fractured love being re-pieced. I’m not here to play games of coolness, I wish to fan one another’s flames.
Here are some poems I wrote in the lingering what if’s, because yes, one date with one man inspired new poetry from my body, *sigh*
…
I tripped
when you kissed me
not sure over what
maybe holding my hand
still
as you wiped summer sweat
from your palm
don’t be sweet
just to bring me
to my knees
please
be sweet
because
You see Me
if not yet fully
soon—
so soon.
Could I live
if only for today,
as though
the next best thing is coming—
is already on the way.
That there is no need
to hold breath tight,
or brace
for the impact
that people both fail
and live up to
who we wish them to be.
Could I live
for just today
as though the next right path
has already been chosen.
Step by clumsy step,
I stumble into darkness,
knowing only
that trusting
is the way.
ON MY MIND: