November walking
The night was quiet as I stole out of the brick house on Hooker street in Denver colorado late last night, the single borrowed key to Elvis, a black VW golf, sitting snuggly in my hand and a hazy sense of where I was headed.
I found my street and turned left, trying to disillusion myself from the day I'd had, packing and trying to make things, alright, if not okay. My heart was sore and achey.
I parked the car and ran across the empty pavement and headed into Paris on Plait in downtown Denver, as I looked through the frosted glass of the fount door I saw the head and shoulders of my dear friend Drea and the smile that was soon mirrored on my face.
We walked to each other and hugged, meeting in the middle of the room; causing people to turn curious faces toward us, each reinventing a story of their own about who we were and why we were there at that precise moment.
Soon I was smiling deeply and hugging Andrej, Drea's fiance and then in a rush he was gone and I was sitting on a wooden bench holding Drea's left hand, admiring her gorgeous ring and hearing the story of how he proposed and the start of the plans for the wedding this summer. It was heaven to see her and feel my dear friend next to me, although I noticed I remained rather mum from my end, the cloud of anxiety and heartache that's been consuming me like a hungry fire consumes dry wood, didn't seem right to spill out on such lovely tidings as her newfound love, and wedding plans and Drea's ultimate happiness.
We sat in that dim coffee shop, drinking hot chocolate and peppermint tea for over an hour, drinking in each other, the way good friends do, after long periods apart.
I drove her home, back to her base for her YWAM college in Arvada, Elvis's headlights dim on the darkened freeway, and it was then that my story started spilling out.
My deep rooted sorrow at loosing the best man I've ever loved, about finding out about him moving on, being seen in our tiny town on a date with someone else, and my catastrophic heartache at really loosing him, irreparably. And my confusion and torment at feeling this way, now. Seven months after we officially broke. When I have no right to feel such things. But I do.
But, also, realizing, that if I really love him, I have to let him go. He deserves the best, to be happy, and if he is moving on, I shouldn't stand in his way, much as it kills me.
Because for me to play any sort of stupid game to try and get him back, so my ego, or my tattered self esteem can feel good about it's self; if that is any part of the reason for my torment, I can't. I love him way more than that. But it means I have been kind of rotting in misery over the last few days/weeks/months.
Praying together, in the dark car, before she runs in, late for her curfew, for christmas to come and for the chance for us to be together, for safe and transformative trips, adventures and soul journeys and the magnitude of God's understanding and immense, unboundable love and compassion for where we are right now, in our lives, and the gratitude that holds every good prayer together like glue. The words spouted from Drea's lips and tears coursed down my face, such relief at having the darkness feel somehow less unknown, with a hand to hold in my utter dark.
Driving away down the dark streetlamp lighted highway and the words of my mother, checking on me, sending me her love support and enthusiasm to where ever it is I am.
"Hello?" The words are quick and almost hallow, streaming down my phone line, I can tell the voice is busy.
"Hey." I reply, and there is a short silence.
"Call ya back in 10?" The voice says.
Yes, ten minutes will be, good.
Walking around the city, the neighborhood, the streets wide and cold and quiet. Christmas lights, strung from door to window and then carried on inside over the banister and around the christmas tree. It felt a bit like walking in a snow globe. The breath rising from my lungs in white clouds, rising up, up until it turns as black as the night and is quieted.
My phone rings. The light illuminates my face as I reach for it, press the answer button, hear the voice waiting for me on the other end.
Sleep is precious and there's sadly not much of it, as I set my alarm for 4:30am tuesday morning my phone chirps at me, 'will set off alarm in 3 hours and 23 minutes'. Holy hell.
The wide streets of denver are fairly deserted, the traffic lights, reflecting their empty primary colors onto the sidewalk and in the windows of shops, not yet even yawning to greet the day.
A small mason jar of tea, sits in my hand, warming my stomach; the fortune tells me to live and let live. Hum.
We ride in silence, the truck roaring beneath us, and then Luke says:
Your the best friend I could ever ask for.
I reach over and squeeze his arm.
I feel so blessed.
Denver International Air port is busy, but not overly crowded. I find myself watching the harried travelers, their grim faces and the doubt and fear in their children's eyes as clear as if it sat in front of me. I try to catch their eye, any of them and smile, pass it on, the secret, the fact, that traveling, that the living of ones life, is still good.
Boarding is mandatory, but so is people watching.
We sit on the edge of the runway, the sky pale and glowing with the promise of the burgeoning golden morning sun, and then it hits my fingers, outstretched on the plastic window pannel, the sun hits me and I feel the warmth on my skin.
Seeing the ocean from my window as we prepare for landing.
Finding my bags, and Jorel all in the same building. And wheeling out into the Florida Sunshine.
Driving down the freeway in a bright blue Ford Mustang, top down, Sugarland blasting out the speakers, hair blowing everywhere, in my tank top because it's too damn hot.
Driving.
Eating.
Florida.
Then the beach, the ocean, laid out before me like yards and yards of blue silk, spreading it's self until it meets the shores of the horizon and the sky and disappears into the everything.
The sand is warm, between my toes, my red nail polish chipped and peeling, I half run, half walk, -half exhilarated at being somewhere new, anxious to touch the water - and half torn to breath and intake such beauty and majesty into my soul, to let it touch me, to let it change me.
I twirl, the water is warm and salty, it swishes against my ankles, my sweatpants hiked up, my hands outstretched, upwards. I close me eyes. I breath.
Splash, it hits my waist lightly, unaccidental, I open my eyes. Oh, it's on.
Soon I am swimming, my clothing doing their best to stay on my frame, the black sweatpants, soggy and heavy in the deep of the water.
The game is abandoned now, the water is warm.
I dive under a swell and let the current wash over me. I take a deep breath and swim farther out into the depths.
Alone in the white room, comfortable, but not really lived in. More a space to occupy. Like a face, or a heart is, unless you live in it. My computer spread before me and the excitment, thrill, trepidation and large work of editing before me.
Soup, and bread and butter and a half a glass of red wine. Conversation treading beneath the etched edge of lines, down to where we live. There is fear, but it will pass. Mine is already flowing, always flowing.
My phone chirps at me, sending me love from a good heart and I am warmed.
This is an adventure. and this was simply the first page of the fifth book. Read, on my fellow wonderer, read on.
I found my street and turned left, trying to disillusion myself from the day I'd had, packing and trying to make things, alright, if not okay. My heart was sore and achey.
I parked the car and ran across the empty pavement and headed into Paris on Plait in downtown Denver, as I looked through the frosted glass of the fount door I saw the head and shoulders of my dear friend Drea and the smile that was soon mirrored on my face.
We walked to each other and hugged, meeting in the middle of the room; causing people to turn curious faces toward us, each reinventing a story of their own about who we were and why we were there at that precise moment.
Soon I was smiling deeply and hugging Andrej, Drea's fiance and then in a rush he was gone and I was sitting on a wooden bench holding Drea's left hand, admiring her gorgeous ring and hearing the story of how he proposed and the start of the plans for the wedding this summer. It was heaven to see her and feel my dear friend next to me, although I noticed I remained rather mum from my end, the cloud of anxiety and heartache that's been consuming me like a hungry fire consumes dry wood, didn't seem right to spill out on such lovely tidings as her newfound love, and wedding plans and Drea's ultimate happiness.
We sat in that dim coffee shop, drinking hot chocolate and peppermint tea for over an hour, drinking in each other, the way good friends do, after long periods apart.
I drove her home, back to her base for her YWAM college in Arvada, Elvis's headlights dim on the darkened freeway, and it was then that my story started spilling out.
My deep rooted sorrow at loosing the best man I've ever loved, about finding out about him moving on, being seen in our tiny town on a date with someone else, and my catastrophic heartache at really loosing him, irreparably. And my confusion and torment at feeling this way, now. Seven months after we officially broke. When I have no right to feel such things. But I do.
But, also, realizing, that if I really love him, I have to let him go. He deserves the best, to be happy, and if he is moving on, I shouldn't stand in his way, much as it kills me.
Because for me to play any sort of stupid game to try and get him back, so my ego, or my tattered self esteem can feel good about it's self; if that is any part of the reason for my torment, I can't. I love him way more than that. But it means I have been kind of rotting in misery over the last few days/weeks/months.
Praying together, in the dark car, before she runs in, late for her curfew, for christmas to come and for the chance for us to be together, for safe and transformative trips, adventures and soul journeys and the magnitude of God's understanding and immense, unboundable love and compassion for where we are right now, in our lives, and the gratitude that holds every good prayer together like glue. The words spouted from Drea's lips and tears coursed down my face, such relief at having the darkness feel somehow less unknown, with a hand to hold in my utter dark.
Driving away down the dark streetlamp lighted highway and the words of my mother, checking on me, sending me her love support and enthusiasm to where ever it is I am.
"Hello?" The words are quick and almost hallow, streaming down my phone line, I can tell the voice is busy.
"Hey." I reply, and there is a short silence.
"Call ya back in 10?" The voice says.
Yes, ten minutes will be, good.
Walking around the city, the neighborhood, the streets wide and cold and quiet. Christmas lights, strung from door to window and then carried on inside over the banister and around the christmas tree. It felt a bit like walking in a snow globe. The breath rising from my lungs in white clouds, rising up, up until it turns as black as the night and is quieted.
My phone rings. The light illuminates my face as I reach for it, press the answer button, hear the voice waiting for me on the other end.
Sleep is precious and there's sadly not much of it, as I set my alarm for 4:30am tuesday morning my phone chirps at me, 'will set off alarm in 3 hours and 23 minutes'. Holy hell.
The wide streets of denver are fairly deserted, the traffic lights, reflecting their empty primary colors onto the sidewalk and in the windows of shops, not yet even yawning to greet the day.
A small mason jar of tea, sits in my hand, warming my stomach; the fortune tells me to live and let live. Hum.
We ride in silence, the truck roaring beneath us, and then Luke says:
Your the best friend I could ever ask for.
I reach over and squeeze his arm.
I feel so blessed.
Denver International Air port is busy, but not overly crowded. I find myself watching the harried travelers, their grim faces and the doubt and fear in their children's eyes as clear as if it sat in front of me. I try to catch their eye, any of them and smile, pass it on, the secret, the fact, that traveling, that the living of ones life, is still good.
Boarding is mandatory, but so is people watching.
We sit on the edge of the runway, the sky pale and glowing with the promise of the burgeoning golden morning sun, and then it hits my fingers, outstretched on the plastic window pannel, the sun hits me and I feel the warmth on my skin.
Seeing the ocean from my window as we prepare for landing.
Finding my bags, and Jorel all in the same building. And wheeling out into the Florida Sunshine.
Driving down the freeway in a bright blue Ford Mustang, top down, Sugarland blasting out the speakers, hair blowing everywhere, in my tank top because it's too damn hot.
Driving.
Eating.
Florida.
Then the beach, the ocean, laid out before me like yards and yards of blue silk, spreading it's self until it meets the shores of the horizon and the sky and disappears into the everything.
The sand is warm, between my toes, my red nail polish chipped and peeling, I half run, half walk, -half exhilarated at being somewhere new, anxious to touch the water - and half torn to breath and intake such beauty and majesty into my soul, to let it touch me, to let it change me.
I twirl, the water is warm and salty, it swishes against my ankles, my sweatpants hiked up, my hands outstretched, upwards. I close me eyes. I breath.
Splash, it hits my waist lightly, unaccidental, I open my eyes. Oh, it's on.
Soon I am swimming, my clothing doing their best to stay on my frame, the black sweatpants, soggy and heavy in the deep of the water.
The game is abandoned now, the water is warm.
I dive under a swell and let the current wash over me. I take a deep breath and swim farther out into the depths.
Alone in the white room, comfortable, but not really lived in. More a space to occupy. Like a face, or a heart is, unless you live in it. My computer spread before me and the excitment, thrill, trepidation and large work of editing before me.
Soup, and bread and butter and a half a glass of red wine. Conversation treading beneath the etched edge of lines, down to where we live. There is fear, but it will pass. Mine is already flowing, always flowing.
My phone chirps at me, sending me love from a good heart and I am warmed.
This is an adventure. and this was simply the first page of the fifth book. Read, on my fellow wonderer, read on.
