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27 de Octubre 2008
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the creek, at its widest point was about ten feet from my shore to the other. at the deepest it was impossible to touch down without ducking under.
i knew the bends, the rocks, the sandy places under the water and which parts dried up first in summer.
i knew its scent in summer and its sound in the flood seasons. i knew where to find mosquito eggs and tadpoles. i knew the safe places to climb down the bank and if a tree came down in a storm i was sad and scared to see such a change in my friends along the edges.
i could walk the length of it barefoot because i was there so often alone with just familiarity to keep me safe even though my papa had once told me that if he ever caught me down there alone he would make sure that was the last time.
the rocks taught me to balance on my legs, to trust the soles of my feet. the cold water rushing along my backside washed away the feeling of her hand coming down too hard, numbed the sting of the spankings.
but this is also how i think of shame.
the waters of my shame run right through the forest of my self and i know them well. i spend most of my time there, alone, with the hushing rush of my embarrassment. when the shame slows down and pools i get a good look at my reflection in it. i could walk for miles on the rocky bottom with pebbles pressing into my feet and legs going numb. i have learned to balance here, to stand up against the current and watch it swirl against my body. and even though i am afraid of what i imagine just a little deeper down, in the darker water, hiding, i force myself to stay, to tread in the deepest part. i know the way to climb out, i know the shore is kind
and forgiveness is in the space between
the dry grains of sand that built up
under a tree around the next bend. but i don't climb out.
when i grew up a little more i was the counselor who held hands with the smallest, bravest among us who wanted to walk the creek too. i was confident and caught them when they slipped or warned them against the holes threatening to swallow their tiny feet.
and i'm still doing this. moving into the shame, holding your hand, inviting you to do more than look, to get in, both feet, then ankle deep. then asking if you will take one more step knowing your knees will disappear. lovingly, i point to the next safer spot, knowing you might slip and land hard against the bottom and drench us all in the spray that will fly.
and with each moment i am shocked that you are still with me, still looking down for a new foothold on another slippery rock. still in it and headed for deeper waters.
i have been warned to guard my heart against you, not to become emotionally involved. and i have been hoping to protect your heart. to keep you from falling,
in love.
but i can't. i haven't, have i?
today you told a story and expected me to guide you through your shame in another way, less loving, less careful, to drag you along, to chide you for calling him a friend even though you were in love with him. you thought i knew enough to give you some advice that would drag you down deeper until the shame of it covered your face, just so i wouldn't be able to see you anymore. but i didn't because i know about falling in love and i know about drowning in shame. and the way i see it, they have to be two different things.
you should never be ashamed you fell in love with him.
you loved him.
and as with any friend i want more than anything to hold your heart above my head and just keep walking on but i can't keep my balance that way,
heart
high above
head.
you loved him and he will never understand how much or what it cost you because they rarely do. you will just keep coming back down to these banks to throw stones at your reflection and i will be there, catching the stones you throw toward where i wade.
why can't we be gentler with ourselves, one another? why can't i be strong instead of stubborn with you who i love? when will the glassy chill finally dry up, quit foaming around the edges and leave a little of the dry ground of forgiveness behind?
never. and that is why i keep up with this ridiculous all wet writer's trek through the beginnings, endings, like midpoint interruptions or extensions of my favorite conversations. this is why i write: you.
this is the best i can do to be with you, in it. because i need you, in it. when i send this on i know you will help it, make it mean something by adding yourself, the self i love from so far away.
if i could be alone with my thoughts i would wonder what it means and come up empty. without you it has no meaning.
but when i am with you here, or there in this way,
i know you make meaning with me.
i know you,
make meaning
with me.
make the wet of my tears and yours, the deep dark waters that cut self-loathing into the story, make them mean.
and though i know it sounds less like an invitation and more like my heart begging yours for permission,
and though i am sure to hurt you again, to let you fall in love, and slip and trip and to risk the desires of your heart and your head drowning in it, even though the last thing i want is to make you feel stupid and i do it everyday, i hope for you to wade knee deep in the fast moving stream of your worst self, lapping unabashedly, painfully bruising your body and hopes against the boulders of your worst story,
because
i know, (i don't know how but i know) you aren't ready to climb out yet and neither am i.
and if we have to be here, the least i can do,
the best i can do,
the only way i know to repent, is to invite you in so i can see your face and stop turning long enough, just long enough
to see you
here, silent and afraid
but not alone.
just in case | By crymytinyflood | 2:53 PM
