It is Monday morning, another cloudy awakening, and I perform my rituals with such a fluidity I think I might be breathing water. I have found myself, of late, struggling to find that perfect space where I am whole and beautiful and not lacking in all the greatness of individuality. It is so easy to fall into sisterhoods, relationships, the many delights of love. For so much of my life I have been prone to the draw of companionship. While I am a lover of quiet moments to myself I also seek the wholeness of contact.
I wonder why I think I am innately such an independent woman. I did, as a child, play alone quite happily for a better part of my days. My mother says that, as a baby, she needed only to place me in my crib and I could be left alone for hours, amused but for the blossoming little plants of imagination soiled in my head. That carried on for much of my life. Playing outdoors, walking to the horses about a mile out and bringing them fluorescent orange carrots. I always found such a peace in the orchards, when alone, save for the cryptic white of the branches and the ancient knots of gnarled wood.
And then again, in my travels, I met myself. I remembered how to laugh at the thunder and sway my hips to the blown grass where the hills were just land that had risen up above the rest. The days in Ecuador, in the city of Cuenca, where I wondered the streets and plopped down in moist cafes to drink coffee and sing sweetly for my swirling veins. Finding a river, that appeared over a rickety bridge, and losing an afternoon in unpolished grass. The incredible fear of ordering for one, with a forced-foreign tongue no less, and conquering even the mocking nights of silence.
But now, it is harder. The cacophony of sirens and rowdy bands makes it hard to remember the girl, those curls that wrapped around small ears, for now I am in a house with paper walls that may fall to the ground with just a slight blow. And the people are kind and intriguing and I stay indoors gladly, but for the sunny days that won't be turned down, and I enjoy the translations of their thoughts to mine.
And I am trying to remember what it means to be perfectly at peace. I asked my dearest friend, last night on the phone (for it is all we have, in the distance) what she does when she wants nothing but isolation. She told me that it is never a problem wanting space, it is only once you have it, that you must wrestle with demons. For the quiet can consume you, and all you remember is laughter in kinship and the delight of hands. So you must trample the memories, just for a little while, and greet yourself as though you are the newest of acquaintances, and say something like, "Hello, Kristen, it has been a while. It is so joyous to see you again." Be sure to speak sweetly to your lone self, for she can be fickle and scared as easily as a curious turtle who wishes to see the stars with a long, unabashed neck.
You must date yourself. A lost art, like that of spinning flower stems into earthly crowns. You must ask yourself to coffee, just to start, and sip foam while reminiscing and asking subtle questions. After a while, you can move on to more intimate endeavors, a long dinner, walks in the park and then, finally, a trip to the mountains where you camp beneath an immense sky that will surely bounce back all the great poetry of you.
But, go with caution, for once a self renders scared there is barely any space left to find her again. For she hides quite well in shadows, no matter how small the room.
I believe each of us must continue this battle. Whether married, single or newly enchanted with another, we must seek out the solace of ourselves, and delight in what creations we are. For, if I can not find a way to truly love my time with me, how can I expect another to cherish that very thing? Indeed, I cannot, and do not wish to miss out on my own company (no matter how self-destructive I may be feeling).
So, load your weapons and begin, for there is much land to conquer within ourselves.
