I’m noticing the love notes I write to myself tend to sound more exasperated than loving. If desperation brings freedom, will exasperation bring love? This little note came in a quick moment, flying from the fingers of a faithful and impatient parent to my humanness.
I’ll set the stage. Our heroine sits in a full slump-yet-still-able-to-type on the leather sofa, light box propped on her lap. It is the quiet of midnight in an empty house that sits above a remote oak grove in a lonely stretch of valley. She types, alternately pausing to reel in a freshly-comprehended work list of nightmares, exhausted and mucking out one of many Promised-I-Would-Do-These-By-Yesterday’s. She looks with increasing desperation for a distraction that will ease this impossible request for focus. She surfs Facebook for seven minutes before shaking loose and closing her browser tab fast. She goes upstairs and makes tea. She pulls on her hair and looks in the unflattering kitchen mirror and wonders how tomorrow will go down. What series of orchestrated events will fit three days into one? She daydreams. She sits again and works for four minutes. She stops and eats half a chocolate bar. Suddenly, that tap on the shoulder arrives – the remembering that answers come to the questions underneath.
She screams, Fill The Void!
but always so I will hear and not see
always so I will follow and not lead.
The puppeteer’s wires are invisible
yet the movements of a puppet are undeniable.
The dance between each is a beauty requiring the other.
These strings – extensions of my own fingers.
Dance if you must, but be the dancer,
for god’s sake.