Good Things Wait for You in the Deep Waters

the only type of intimacy I am interested in

I’m sitting by the side of a stream.
It’s the most beautiful day, and the wind is blowing through the cottonwood leaves.
Tiny little dashes of white cotton are flowing through the air.
The red rocks are especially red—crimson red, sandy red.
The water is a green blue.

But when I drop my clothes to the side of the stream,
gently pressing my skin into the cold water,
all I can do is weep.

It’s one of those days.

One of those days where I’ve gotten stuck at the bottom of my own sea.
Where my limbs feel like lead.
Where I’ve learned to not avoid it,
or try to cheerful myself out of it,
or make light of it,
or get over it.

It’s one of those days that I’ve learned how to sit within—
to let things be heavy and buoyant,
to sit at the bottom of my sea,
to look around,
and to say:

There must be something here.
Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.
I wouldn’t be plunged into my depths.

And here at the depths,
there’s grief and there’s sorrow,
and there’s also a strange dark magic that’s waiting.
There are voices that don’t always populate the everyday
because they’re quiet whispers, not loud shouts.

And the loud shouts are saying:
Go get dressed. Brush your daughter’s teeth. Show up for the client call.

But the soft whispers are reminding you of parts of you that you’ve lost,
and creative ideas that you need to listen to,
and sadnesses that haven’t been breathed through in tears yet.

And so sitting here in this place,
though it’s highly inconvenient at times,
is essential.

And today it’s inconvenient—
because I’m looking at this gorgeous stream,
and I’m with my beloved,
and I’m with my daughter,
and we’re all naked,
and we’re all soaking up the sun and dipping our bodies,
and I feel so sad,
and I feel so lonely.

And there’s no explanation for why—
and then there’s all the explanations for why.

Right here, sitting by the side of the stream,
with the most beautiful bright blue sky and red rocks,
and bright green leaves blowing gently in the wind.

And my daughter laughing,
so happy to put her little toes—
her cute little fat toes—
into the water.

But there’s something for me at the bottom of this sea.
And I know better than to avoid it.
I know better than to escape it.
I know better than to try to positive myself out of it.

I know there’s poetry here,
and there’s myth here,
and there’s a heroine’s journey that I’m on,
and there’s places that I’ve lost myself.

And I know that there’s something for me here.

So, despite my internal world not matching the the bright and light outside world of the moment,
I stay with it.
And I listen.
And I cry.

And eventually I hear something that wants to be spoken.
And it takes me all day to find the courage to speak it.

Because it can feel so uncomfortable to speak truths—
especially buried truths,
especially uncomfortable truths,
especially tender truths.

But often that’s exactly what we need to speak,
and share in our own lives with the ones we love.

Coming outside of 
everything’s great,
and I’m good,
and let me share with you the great things,
and let me smile and uplift you
into something deeper
and more true.

And it’s not going into the opposite 
and complaining
and venting 
and ranting 
and self-victimizing.

No, it’s not that either.

There is another place—
in how we share,
and how we connect,
and how we be honest with each other—
that’s neither one or the other.

It’s a place where we move moment to moment with our hearts.
And we listen.
And we pause.
And we let things hurt a bit.
And we let things breathe a bit.
And we say something that maybe will sting.
But we say it with love.
And we let ourselves be stung in return.
And we breathe again.

This is when the masks come down.
This is when we see each other as humans.

As I get older,
I get more and more bored of surface connections:
here’s all the great things happening!
or the opposite: 
here’s just complaints with no movement, like a wall—impenetrable.

I don’t want to connect with that either.

But there is another place—
where we reveal what’s hurting,
and what’s moving,
and what questions we’re asking.
Where we share the honest and hard things with each other,
and we get closer,
and we love each other more there.

We come out of the silo of our aloneness and invite another in.

And so when I was sitting by the side of that stream,
I opened my heart doors
and let my messy un-curated truths flow out.

And I felt more free.
Closer in.
To everything.

And that’s the kind of connection I want.
The kind that doesn't avoid or fear the depths.
But dives straight into them, 
not avoiding any of the 
beautiful mess
and muck 
and deep waters
of the beating red heart.

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*My next writing workshop and mentorship EMBODIED SOUL begins in July. Going out to my email list soon. Stay tuned.