The Art of Thin Ice

I'm always writing in my mind and soul even if my fingers aren't bonding with my computer-- the one with the keys that have partially faded letters from having been touched so many times-- sometimes joyously, sometimes painfully, but always by necessity. I did not choose to be a writer as much as it chose me, but I am slowly learning the art of choosing the gifts one has been given.

For nine months and thirteen days, my life has been a source of great anguish, hope, frustration and well, the visible unknown. Without the foundation of good health, every surface is slippery, unweildy and fragile. Every step reminds me of the time my childhood best friend and I decided to try walking on a frozen creek in the middle of winter. She fell through the ice; I did not. I merely covered for her when she stealthily entered her home in order to change out of her wet, freezing clothes before her mother found out what had happened. We were ten years old. It remains a mystery why some of us fall through the metaphorical ice and some can skate beautifully on top of it. I've never been able to be much of a skater in that respect, but I would like to learn.

Perhaps because my life has been so atypical in for all of my adult life and much of my childhood, I never acquired a habit of comparing myself to others. While there have been times in the heat of a moment, I have wanted to have a certain quality or ability of someone else, in the grand scheme of things, I've always felt that everyone gets his or her own path. Apples and oranges. That's just how it works.

I have spent so many moments trying to trace back my footsteps, my trail of breadcrumbs, to figure out where things went so very wrong. I don't have very many regrets at all in my life, but I still carry the weight of profound regret for going on the trip to California last August. I wish with all my pointless might that I had never gone to the desert, never eaten that meal at that restaurant, never been over-medicated (though necessarily though), never ended up with a life that feels like it is no longer within me, but circling around somewhere in the ether while I plead for it to return to me, to merge back within my body. I dream of things that I have done and remember long-forgotten memories as they arise in my mind, in that state between sleep and wakefulness. For an instant, they are real and I am aware that all that separates us is time.

I miss the music and my friends most of all, but I carry both within me and in some ways, now that so many illusions that come simply from being immersed in a life have been driven away, there is a purity that remains and it feels strong. I feel the love of the people in my world who care about me. And, for the first time in a long time, I don't care about trying to acquire the love of those who don't freely offer it. This feels like one of the greatest lessons-- the art of letting go of what is not.

And so, while I am not able to indulge in so many of the things I would like to right now and my body feels so very fragile and like I could fall through that ice at any moment, instead of being in the sea, I'm alternating between floating on my back and fighting every wave. Sometimes, the art of swimming is not just in the way you move water with each stroke, but how you allow water to move you. Right now, I'm learning how to swim through life all over again and seeking the warmth that comes only from knowing that while you can't always stay off of thin ice, you can climb out from under it and have a friend watch your back while you get dry clothes.