About control and how little we have. Also about baggage and learning lessons from life. |
Storm Debris of shattered tree limbs littered my waves. When I met you, it was after a storm, And the closer I got to you, the more my thrashing currents would spin you out of control. Then you disappeared and I found myself alone, afraid. Afraid of conflict with boulders, the endless tears of mist as I smacked the banks over and over, expecting something different when this tumbling and thrashing was all too familiar. It was as if I were grieving the phantom limb of control, the loss of something I never had, control over the physics of height versus speed, water versus rock, too much water for the depth and width of the riverbed, too much truth to hold back tears. When I reached the river, I looked back over where I had been. And lodged between two boulders at the crest of an outcropping of stone, there you were. You looked back down at me, smiling, and said “Leave me here. You will travel lighter without all my baggage. And anyway, I’m exhausted from trying to steer you clear of the boulders.” I floated down the river on my back, unencumbered. Perhaps next time there comes a storm, I will remember to ride it out, trusting that gravity will keep me going in the right direction. And maybe I’ve also learned not to thrash so much in fear of losing control, in fear of being myself. |