Unforeseen, unforsaken is composed of pieces of me that I don’t share anywhere else. Thank you for reading.
This morning, in a moment of deep tenderness I texted a friend:
when will it be our turn to be in love?
Without realizing it, I’d committed a cardinal sin. Not acknowledging that I am, indeed, in love. What I meant of course was: when will we fall in love again? when will new love greet us and scoop us up? when will we be enraptured by it?
But that isn’t what I said. I know I do this same thing when I say I’m alone, or that nobody loves me. These are inherent fallacies and yet. And yet.
Sometimes we are faced with the sadness and the loneliness that swoops in and knocks us over. It’s unexpected. Of course, I don’t mean to discount the people who love me or care for me. The ones who show up when I call. I would never take that for granted. Moments like these are reminders that I am, simultaneously, seeking more.
So here I am, faced with the swirling thoughts that come after re-reading this message to my sweet friend who, although he hasn’t answered yet, I almost hope he won’t. The moment has passed, and the point is moot.
The reality, when I am honest, is that I am in love. I am in love with the sun when it comes out, or when I wake up to it. When I can see that the light through my tiled window is bright blue, when the morning air has that crispness to it.
I am in love with the sycamore tree out my window. In the fall it lost its leaves and all winter I watched it, spindly and sharp. In the last month, I have looked on in awe as it has slowly leafed out. Each day the leaves have grown bigger as its seed pods dropped one by one. Not only is this a divine indicator of the cycle I am completing, coming up on a year in this home I’m nesting into, but also it is a most ancient, natural process and as such bearing witness to it has me stunned with reverence.
I am in love with understanding myself. Learning who I am and how I can adapt, recalibrate, reconfigure in accordance with. I hesitate to say this because on the other hand, living life is difficult and I struggle often with the concept that people do not understand the everyday difficulties I face as a neurotypical person who is barely scratching the surface of her neuroses. However, I know that becoming more myself, recognizing where I need help (even if I can’t ask for it), and where I need accommodation — it’s all fascinating and deeply healing. Even when it hurts.
I am in love with people I don’t see anymore. People I don’t speak to anymore. People who touched my life. People who shared pieces of themselves with me. People who have sat with me while I cried. People I have cried over. People who hurt me. People who loved me.
I am in love with the trying. The failing. The trying again. The pain. The honesty of it all. The transparent messiness of it. The places where I hit invisible walls and say — okay, that’s enough, and then set a boundary.
My heart grows deeper and larger the more I learn. The older I get. Maybe I sometimes struggle to make decisions because of this truly tender heart. I feel akin to a clamshell. I open, I get hurt, I get rejected, I close up again. Though, I never seem to stay that way for very long as my precious desire for connection and community brings me back around again, and there I am. Open.
For a long time I let myself internalize the idea that I was too sensitive. Now I see that if I didn’t experience life this way, I wouldn’t be who I am. It’s certainly not perfect, and sometimes I curse this tender heart, but when it comes down to it, the truth is that I am proud that now, at 28, I can recognize myself as tender. As sensitive and loving and romantic and soft. I can be honest about what I want and how I wish to connect, even if, or when, my desire is not reciprocated. Despite the pain, the loss, the struggle. Despite the impairments. Despite what the world tends to do. What the world is doing. In spite of.
I can see my love for
the flowering, everywhere right now
the ocean and the breeze off it
watching people greet each other on the street
Luna calling for me in the morning
hugs from people who love me
a messy, half-rearranged apartment and a sink full of dishes
protecting my time, and not apologizing for that
planting trees — the cultivation of
you and you and you
everyone out at the encampment down the block, their determination, their love, their devotion
my family, despite
the roof over my head
all the sunsets
hot water
my life
and
I can revel in all this. Everything in front of me.
I can remind myself that I don’t have to worry about it right now, but one day someone else will see this softness and this love and they will ask to take the pulse of it and the rest will be
A