At the Edge of Light and Water

This morning I have "baby kitty eyes."  Because last night I walked the neighborhood in squeaky flip-flops, sobbing into my hair curtain.
Note to self:  It is very hard to be convincingly angry while wearing flip-flops.
Suddenly I was 17 years old hiding behind my swath of dramatic red hair.  I felt comforted by it's camouflage. Beneath it I could cry as much as I needed to.l
The tears came for no reason, at least not one big enough to justify this teenage outburst in a 35 year old woman.
We had just been on a date to see the new Mad Max movie.  In the dark I kicked my bare feet onto his lap.  He held them like kittens in his wide hands.  The sun was setting to pink when we left the theater.
Then we got into it over who was going to be late to work so they could return the carpet cleaner to the rental place.  The car grew tight as we yelled over each other, both hot with self-righteousness. Andrew pulled in to the garage and pushed the little button to close it. I scurried under the metal door before it could clang shut and trap me in domestic prison.  I was Indiana Jones barely escaping with my whip and hat, only for me it was my purse and cell phone.
I shouldn't be complaining.  He just shampooed the carpets.  I have it better than many wives, and mothers of 3 children.  I can still escape to the mountains and go rock climbing with my friends.  I sweat and feel more animal than civilized person.  I get dirty like a kid in summer.
I paint canvases in the living room under bright sunlight.  I attend creative writing workshops, use the word fuck when it suits me, and write stories that make good girls blush.  I go for sunrise runs on well seasoned legs.  I'm a member of a gym with people who make me laugh and push me beyond my physical limits.
My soul should be fed.  These are the kinda things they tell you to do in Health magazines right?

excerpt from my most recent sketch book 2015

So why is my chest shrieking:  RUN!

I haven't done this in a while.  I haven't been consumed by a silent roar and tried to outrun it since we moved to this house 2 years ago.  But right now I am frantic going full steam ahead in one direction.  I just want to keep going until all ties fall away and I am a single entity.  I want to streak into the setting light behind the mountains and let my soul catch fire.

A young family rides slowly past me on their bikes.  The dad has a toddler on one of those plastic seats mounted to the back of his frame.  They are so tame, like lions at the zoo.  I know Dad could ride hard and fast without his family in tow.  Does it drive him mad sometimes to be so subdued?   Does he ever ache to drink whiskey instead of milk?


I do now.  For the first time in years, I wanna head straight for the bar.  I know something will awaken there.  It is the girl who will not be tethered.  She takes everything she wants, every shot.
She feels no guilt.  The alcohol swirls little Jiminy Cricket until he cannot chirp the annoying truth at her.

sketch book 2015

But no matter how fast I walk, I cannot un-know the truth:
That is not freedom.
I would be tethered to something far heavier than a family.  I would not move fast at all.  I would only sink.
The truth and the reason I am crying these hot tears is because there is nowhere to run.  No matter how fast the whiskey.   No sex, no distance covered in miles, no size 3 dress, no man, no woman, not even a child can ease this for me.

I am meant to feel this.  It is my deafening, limited and human self.  It is the price I must pay to keep my heart open to the only sustainable source of light I crave.  The light I chase in the sunrise before anyone else is awake, and I can cry in a way that is not lost or frustrated or heavy with longing.  My longing is quiet because I am right where I need to be.  On those mornings, I cry because I feel peace.
All of my questions are answered, even the ones I can't articulate.  I float the ocean's horizon line suspended between two worlds.  I often draw this line in my sketch book.  I feel most quiet here where both things are true.  They negate each other and I am weightless along this edge.  The only thing to remind me that I am human is the breath drifting easily from this body.   This beautiful whale that is one throbbing muscle of propulsion, too heavy, yet necessary.  I know whales rejoice too when they jump from the water to hit the sun.  Our only way out is to rejoice.

Back on the sidewalk, fireworks explode all around me in every direction.  It is the day after the 24th of July, and I am on a military base of pyromaniacs.  I'm also on the phone with my friend, Misty.  I've been walking for nearly an hour now.  The rage has cooled to smoke and tendrils of laughter.  From the dark behind me a man runs up and slaps my ass.  It's Andrew.  He is breathing hard from running to catch me.  The street grows a little brighter.  I feel myself shrink next to his 6 foot body.  I also feel more tears, but not angry ones.

"What are you doing here?  ... Misty...I'll have to call you back."

"I used the "Find my iPhone" app to track you.  I love you and I was starting to get worried.  You were gone for a long time."

We stop walking.  I cry into his soft black t-shirt.  I press my nose into his chest muscle and take a long drag.  I have been filleted.  He can do this to me like no one else.  He will not buy my complex package of artistry.  He will only do one thing over and over and that is love me without question.  We walk home together.  He carries my silly flip-flops.  My feet are bare and he waits for me to tip-toe around the rocks.  He reminds me to wash my feet before I go inside.  He just shampooed the carpets.

sketch book 2015