I tried living with no hope. I tried not playing music, not loving, not speaking, not laughing. I tried pretending that the wound was too great to heal from, that the trespass was irreparable, that the deeds had been done. Nothing lasts though, even hopelessness, even lack, even despair, even bleeding, even everything beyond belief.
First my whole fucking life, and now this.
The flip side, the surprise, the delight, is how much I still enjoy most of it. How much most of the suffering comes from knowing how much it ‘could be better’. Such a silly notion. I have almost always trusted that my life would amount to something. It is only in those extended moments turning to years that I sometimes catch my breath on hold, pause.
I find it difficult to breathe sometimes. Usually though, my breath is calm, and clear, and relatively slow. I compare and contrast my breathing to others a fair amount. My breathing is slower than the average unhealthy person, but not as slow as any real masters, whatever that is…well, we all know it when we see it, which is also how I know it is likely an illusion. What we see and believe is only true while we believe it. Eventually we learn something new, our perspective expands, and we realize our old view was askewed, or incomplete, or downright foolish.
Being wrong feels just like being sure you are right.
I’m making fair progress…more than none and I am grateful for that. Ultimately, we are all simply progressing towards an end however, and the thought of this does catalyze a yearning in me sometimes, for love, for partnership, for intimacy. I miss what we had. I miss the self I was in love. I miss that masculine direction. I wonder if I can bring myself to try again. I am clear that I like a man to lead, and that I am not one to enjoy being weak or meek. I have been with some fantastic men, actually. More than my fair share by feminine standards, some would say.
The progress I am making is in loving myself, serving life, trusting life, alignment and coherence and a return to integrity. I am healing. Slowly. Aging is like a trick pony that kicks to the side.
One of my first major internal injuries was from a pony. Shetland. To the rear. It sent me flying, and I had a horseshoe print on my abdomen for months. I think it cracked my xyphoid process and kinked it back. That is one of the things that slows me down now, slightly.
My godson called me today, and asked me for help getting to the mountain. He said he is depressed, unemployed, needing to get out and up and push physically. I do understand, and I am grateful he trusts me, and wants to ride with me. I find his story and framing interesting and I am aware there is a bigger story at play, though I also think the superficial one is okay. There is a whole lot of that these days. Superficiality. Surface tension. Maybe that’s the bulk of everything.
I made up with my bandmate today, casually, after a long bout of not speaking. I told a couple mutual friends we were through, though online I did not make any formal moves. He didn’t really know we had broken up, or at least, he acted that way. He is older than I, and perhaps more set in some ways. We have in common that we are conduits for creativity, in the key of Rock. We agreed things are not flowing and change is in order. We made some next step plans. It feels better. I love singing. I love writing songs. I hope we do more recording, and some more performing. 8 years or so is a long time, and I care to make my relationships juicy and real and fun, not stale and rote and obligatory. So we ride it out another day, and it’s good.