One single garnet hued leaf drifts, seemingly riding the gentle breeze, and lands silently on top of the rather significant pile of its brethren below. I have an irrational desire to pick it up and tuck it into one of my many pockets. To protect it. To protect her.
She is so bare now. Her branches, once heavy from the weight of thick clusters of green leaves have only a few crimson bodies left, dangling precariously from limbs that look more delicate than I would imagine them to be. I keep thinking she won’t survive this season. It’s irrational but pervasive and I have a hard time moving from this spot. And yet, my legs are starting to feel stiff, and I know I need to, soon. To stay planted will ensure a miserable journey home and that feels like too much on top of what is already too much.
I want to tell her that I’ll be back next week, or perhaps sooner. Reassure her that there is some accountability. I want to step closer and whisper into her graying bark that she is noticed and loved and therefore, must solider through the season. She must withstand the sharp winds and heavy snow. She must be tolerant of freezing temperatures and less company. I want to suggest that she rest for a bit, as I know she’s apt to do.
The thing is- I don’t need to tell her. This is her cycle, her way, and still, something feels different. I feel different and thus, she is different. The world has been more complicated, harsher. She had to work her way through the blistering heat of the summer and the noisy construction that produced that monstrously ugly dog park mere feet away from where she resides. And I suppose I feel as though she’s felt all of the other things. The anger and impatience and sadness that seems to sit in the air lately.
I spin my body to survey the rest of the park visible to me in this spot. It’s quiet today. There is no one sitting on the bench perched in front of the lake. No one corralling a dog out of the newly fenced section. There are no runners or walkers or strollers. I can’t hear anyone mindlessly singing to music only they are privy to or having a spicy conversation of which I can only witness their participation.
There are no park employees, no bicycles, no cars. Gone is the smell of barbeque and stale beer and birthday cake. There are no photo shoots, capitalizing on the beautiful foliage and the rest of the scenic terrain.
When I close my eyes, I can feel the life force of the park, as it exists when no one dares to trespass. The perpetual lapping of the water against the shore, the leaves endlessly shedding in preparation for hibernation, rustling as they gather.
I struggle with the knowledge that I have to push myself to begin the journey home. If she perishes, if she somehow doesn’t make it through the season, it will feel like a sign. If she gives up, gives in, then I will have so much to question.
Walking closer, I extend my arm in front of me, until my fingers brush against her shockingly smooth bark. There is a warmth that I imagine sitting on her surface that I know doesn’t exist and still, my brain longs for it. Seeks it.
I know, I whisper, feeling foolish and yet, emboldened.
I do know. I know that this is the beginning of a season that will be difficult but worth it, somehow, in some way, at some point. I know that there is a point on the other side that will render everything less significant with the benefit of hindsight. That points feels so far away though and while I’m loathe to admit it, it’s fear that I feel. The not knowing.
If the pain were to be described to me, I know that I’d be able to put it into its proper context. I would prepare in the way that someone can for such things-ready myself in any way that I can. But no one can do that. They offer me condescension and couched sentiments. It will likely be fine. You will likely be okay. I’m sure things will work out. But of course, you never know until you know and no one knows. And I understand, I do. They can’t offer me anything in the way of certainty because there is no assurance to offer at this time, no matter how I crave it.
There is nothing malicious in the way they approach all of this. To the contrary, they are trying to protect me. Better I should avoid latching myself to the belief that all will be well. Better I should exist in a sphere that isn’t quite pessimistic but is perhaps cautiously optimistic. Better I should layer my gushy heart with the kind of armor that is intended for unmapped battles.
Except that I have no real defenses. I never have. I have imperfect coping strategies. I have methodologies that are mostly effectual in seeing me through, but not without open wounds and eventually, latent scars. Of course, it is that viscous scar tissue that is meant to protect me in the future, but it does not. It never has. I still have this undeniable desire to see the good in people, to hope for better, to want for more. I still think that things eventually work out and maybe it’s not for the best in the way that seems obvious to others, but rather, in a way that feels inherently survivable.
Ah yes, I think. Maybe that’s all this really is- an exercise in surviving. Our desire to thrive is mostly lofty. Sometimes achievable, but not always, and we mustn’t be disappointed with the second rung. We shouldn’t find ourselves bitter and angry and searching. It’s not about settling. It’s about acceptance. It’s about fortifying oneself to do it again. And again. And again.
X
L.
