You are water. I’m water. We’re all water in different containers. That’s why it’s so easy to meet. Someday we’ll evaporate together.
don’t question it. don’t even joke about how ill it befits the sunburnt, overblown circus that is a stereotypical spring break. some of us need this.
not, as one of my nearest and dearest once aptly (devastatingly) described the usual proceedings, “a bad Beethoven coda.” i refuse to comment right now on What This May Mean for the future because it’s not fair to spurn hope’s alacritous courtship out of weary-hearted cowardice. in the interest of full disclosure i should also include how actively i suppress any and all upwellings of relief. their ascent would leave the water muddied by the detritus of the hurt i allowed to blanket the seafloor where, ink-robed beneath the deep-beyond-depth, their cries for credence flail muffled; stymied; hindering no progress above. this, Florence, is what the water gives me, until capillarity prevails, or i let go the pieces and expunge the murk.
you’ll see that i dragged myself over rivers, through woods, and up more switchbacks than i care to count today. it was a lovely homecoming i got from two friends who absolutely do not know how wonderful they are, when they shuck their blinders and inhabit themselves as *people* as well as (excellent) musicians. my body feels grounded, and i could weep from that relief alone. somewhere along the way i made nascent peace with the year to come—with the basic idea that there is a new year on tomorrow’s horizon— for which i am grateful. peace is something i am sorely in need of, and the waters whose surfaces i have kept my hands far above are all internal, tempest-prone, turbulent, eddying. so that’s where i need to delve, obviously, but i’m still divesting of heavy limbs, heavy eyes, and a heart lightened, but heavy residually. tomorrow remains entirely unplanned for the first time in years. maybe it will be better that way, and maybe it will mean i end up racing around trying to throw something together. but it’s coming.
My brother once showed me a piece of quartz that contained, he said, some trapped water older than all the seas in our world. He held it up to my ear.
“Listen,” he said, “life and no escape.”
-Anne Carson, Plainwater
all i needed was to sit down in the shower and let the water whisper to me (and wail for me) awhile. now, both cleansed and brimfilled, the strident snarl of thought sluiced by deluge in streaming sussuration, may i turn to slumber open-armed, seeking solace in service’s stead. sisterhood, not servitude; surrender, not struggle.
You drown not by falling into a river, but by staying submerged in it.