Assertive Right #3

Somewhere along the way I’ve lost bits of myself to others.  Scattered over the landscape, it seems futile that I might ever be whole again.  Today, I scan the landscape in hopes of patching my tired soul. I breathe the cold air deep into my lungs and oddly enjoy the sting of it on my face. 

It was given a value in my childhood household, this selflessness I have been known for. I grew up watching my mother give endlessly, never tiring of the support she was required to offer. It wasn’t rare for the phone to ring, from the other room, I’d hear her say “I’ll be right there” and before I could blink she had her jacket on and was out the door.  These people, some I didn’t know, needed my mother more than I, I assumed. I was left to watch TV without her these evenings.  Later, I’d explain to her the parts she had missed while she was off assisting others with whatever might have ailed them on that particular day.

These pieces, I tear off willingly, proudly, defining myself by the beauty of my imperfect and exhausted soul.  Other’s define me by this as well.  I give freely to some who don’t deserve it.  They grew to expect that if they were missing a corner piece, I’d find the matching one in myself and go without so that they might be whole.  I leave my children, to tell me about the ending at a later time, so that I can have a drink with you.  Do you feel whole yet?  How many more beers will it take?  My daughter waits at home to share the ending of the show with me.  She watches me give value to my title of the helper.  She eavesdrops on my conversations, learning from me.  One day, she might find herself on this trail in these woods pondering how many of these people would offer to her one of their four coveted corner pieces.

Today, on this trail in the dead of winter, the cold wind is blowing right through me. I realize how cold and lonely that feels.  A waif, too weak to stand on my own, I come to terms with the fact that I’ve given too much of myself.  This, I finally realize as I fear the wind might blow me away. The cost is getting too high.  I don’t want to miss the ending of the show.  I repeat Assertive Right #3 out loud - not fearful of anyone hearing me because I have’t seen a soul on the trail today- I am not responsible for finding solutions to your problems. 

I am not responsible for finding solutions to your problems.

The Thin Line

I remember now -

We used to walk barefoot to McDonald’s late at night, carrying our shoes.  We would meet halfway between your house and mine, (a mere two house walk for each of us) shoes in hand, feet on the earth, summer breeze at our back.  We would make the trek to simply get an ice cream cone.  The walk would dissolve into endless laughter, friendship, and solving our teenage problems.  We did this walk all of the time.

You were my very best friend. 

The very best friend.

Soon, a country lay between us - a mountain range and a few provinces.  Eventually, an ocean split the distance and meeting halfway became impossible. Neither of us cared to swim that far.  The distance grew so great that we thought we could never get back those nights, those talks, or that kind of love for one another.  Yet, you were always on my mind.  I continued to give nod to those late-night walks, for they were what made me. 

Still, I loved you endlessly. 

Then, the tiniest life put our distance into perspective.  It was never so great after all.  I wouldn’t live this nomadic life forever.  Home was clearly defined and I missed it. I knew I’d always return.  I knew what I wanted my life to look like and this tiny human - your tiny human - would be part of it.  I called you once a day, my night, your morning, like I used to for the remainder of that year abroad.  I will be there for her birth – and I was. I will be there for her first steps– and I was.  I will be there for you – and I was. 

My promise, my word – we can get back there. 

Today we stood, opposite each other, eyes fixed, and it all flooded back. The thin line between us seemed to be the greatest distance that we might ever have to cover.  The Great Lakes, The Prairies, The Rockies and The Pacific Ocean seemed minor compared to the line between us today.  I stood there, brave-faced, a mirror image of you, with the line dividing us.  I stood there, wanting to remember all the times that we met halfway but I simply remembered all the times my strides were larger.  So, I stayed on my side, and you stayed on yours (likely for the same reasons).

Now, hours later, I sit at my pine table, tea cooling beside me, fingers on the keyboard, and I’m able to remember meeting you halfway for our late-night walks.  I’m able to remember how you promised to be there for her birth, her first steps, and for me – and you were. 

I remember now -

The memories flood the page as do tears in my eyes.  Those summer nights flood back with each tear that falls. A long time ago, we would meet halfway, feet on the earth, shoes in hand, and walk together. 

Now, a thin line stands in the way.

A Minute

It’s been a minute.

Somehow, in that minute, I forgot that I love who I am in your presence.  It’s warm, and familiar and forgiving.  Open, shy, and funny.  In that minute I created my own story about the things that filled your time, while filling my own.  Head down, nose in a book, fingers on the keyboard, I forged forward with each of the 60 seconds.  

Sometimes, time would pause, and I’d wonder how you were filling your minute. In that minute, we healed and grew.  That minute was filled with both the good and bad.  It was a much needed 60 seconds.  Sometimes, you just need to breathe for a minute.  

Time is interesting.  It’s gone and we can’t reclaim it.  Those are 60 seconds that are gone, done, over.  But, we sit, coffee and tea between us, a minute older.  We feel wiser - stronger where it counts and weaker where it holds no bearing.   

Thank you for allowing me a minute. Thank you for knowing when the timer went off and joining me at this tiny table. Thank you for meeting me where I am.  Thank you for being warm, familiar, and forgiving, open, shy, and funny.  

Thank you for offering up a minute of your time.