"Out of this one...I don't know how to get you...out of this one."
I am listening to the Fray beneath the coze of my heavy comforter. The voice of Isaac Slade is magnified and ricochetting off the walls of my empty room. This still space is my safe dome of contemplation. I meet my rescuer.
The first time God spoke to me I was 20 years old. His voice rang like a shot from a cannon. I flinched and thrust my arms forward to protect my soft spaces. He invaded my stomach. He invaded my heart.
Lately, all I have been hearing are the clicking of keys, the vibration of my cell phone on my work desk, Levi the Poet's "Seasons", and a sea of more talking atop the talking. Everyone is talking. And I--as usual--can't shut up.
I am coping. Add one extra "p" and an "out" to the end and you get the banner of my life. But, I am not copping out. Not this time.
Dear God,
I am listening.
I ask a lot of questions. Sometimes, when I do not come out with the answer I want, I reform the dough. I start again. I am not trying to manipulate you. I just want you to give me something to hope for. You think after 24 goddamn years I could pull out a steaming hot tray of hope. But, we are fallen, I guess. All my cookies are always misshapen. Which leads me to believe one of two things: All is lost, or all is insatiably beautiful in its undeniable imperfection.
I am coping with this.
There is a clay man in my life. He is made of soil so rich I could grow an orchard of apples in his stomach. His face and eyes get heavy sometimes. And I observe them. There is something intriguing about watching someone stare back at you who wants to see you walk through your shit. And I hear victors inside us both inhaling and exhaling;
Beating their chests
Like drums.
See, we have conquered something
Here.
Just look at all we have done.
If you do, it will no longer seem like something is wrong.
Because maybe
There's nothing wrong.
I used to not be able to look men in the face. I was too busy hoping mine would melt off onto the floor like wax. Then, you came and peaked inside my windows. You were golden rope. You are golden rope.
Sometimes, when I stretch out my legs to observe my toes, I truly begin to believe my legs have gotten longer. God knows there is enough in the world to make you feel small! But, it seems like even when I am being filed down to nothing, I look back at who I was in January and I stand tall.
I am a tall 5'2.
We still have a lot to work on. There is a hole in my water hose.
I keep coming to the bucket...trying...trying again. And you?
You're in this equation telling me I don't have to fill up the bucket in the first place.
Because the fullness of the bucket is not a representation of our relationship.
This is not a DayTimer.
You are not a list.
You are organs.
And I forget.
I've never seen a real man before. I have only heard stories involving houses with hay roofs and cobblestone walkways. Are you real? Can I press my lips into your face?
In the midst of the grey there is always a flicker. Then, we're not we're not dangling off the precipice anymore. We're enjoying the view. All the scenes below us are emerald, ocher, and autumn.
Autumn began and will end with you.
"Out of this one. [You] don't know how to get [me] out of this one."
No, neither of us do.
I have a long winter ahead of me with a great deal of walking and scrummaging for Truth. Be patient with me as I nurse my old wounds.
Be patient with me,
As I walk
Through old rooms.
Be patient with me,
I promise--
It won't be long.
And we'll be new
We'll be
Out of this One.
