Rains crested the mountain all day, torrential downpours washing away pollen and dust until I felt damp all the way down to my soul. The weather cleared up sometime around mid-afternoon as I approached my mailbox to sunlight lancing through the summer-heavy foliage above. In the sun’s rays, the mist leftover by the precipitation rose into foggy swirls throughout the forest, and I felt the ache in my chest diminish.
Later, after a warm bath and two cups of Colombian coffee that did little but take the edge off my grogginess, I climbed in my car and headed out onto the town. I longed for smoke leaking from my mouth but resisted the urge to take my pipe with me as I drove away from the mountain and the hazy steam of the evening sun; I already liked the smell of lavender clinging to me from my bath, and I didn’t want to bury it under the sharp tang of tobacco–not today.
“See the rising tide–
know it’s only a matter of time.”
Things have changed.
It’s hard to articulate these changes here. They were less outward than inward, less changes than decisions I made for myself. But I can see them–the shift in the atmosphere, the leaning to a different side, the emergence of a new persona. I can feel them as clearly as I feel the keys beneath my fingers while I type.
But to put them into words–that is a feat I have not yet mastered.
“Take my broken hands;
takes a sunrise to understand.”
The week previous was highlighted by a single word in my mind, the Japanese for ‘change’–henka. I scribbled, messily, the kanji for it in my journal, my planner, on the back of my hand. I used it as my war-cry, a mantra meant for me and only me that would spur me on to decisions not yet made.
It worked. Change came.
Just not in the way I expected.
Then again, when does anything ever go the way one expects it to?
“Oh, if it’s cold in the water,
am I better for it?
Oh, I can learn from my mother
If this sinking ship goes down.”