“April is the cruelest month… breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.” – TS Eliot, The Waste Land
Eliot nailed the angst coursing through this month. There’s too much to do and my heart aches with longing to be more than I can right now.
There’s a blending in the flow of memories that dovetails the many into a nebulous “he” and each sin is muted and sharpened by the collective act of their rejections.
The place where I was in the mixing of “we” flows in chaotic jagged edges. In leaving me, they took too much and I was unable to do more than breathe and ache. I am a series of ripped seams and messy scars. I’m moving in fits and starts because I must. I can not stagnate. I will not.
There are steps being walked through. Tiny steps. Baby steps. I need to trust that I will not fail myself once more in attaching my hopes to another crumbling ledge by placing my hope in the hands of another fleeting love.
I see the winds have cleared the clouds and the cool air is tempered by a warm sun. The rain drops and drying tears of yesterday bring new growth. Decayed leaves mulch tender roots, keeping moist what would otherwise dessicate in death. There’s an unspoken promise that is stronger than words and it flows in honeyed nectar in each flower that blooms. Each dawning realization is a promise to be better than I was.
Gates have creaked open in stiff disuse and what is without will grow within and I await the cool dusk where I stand a little taller under the warmth of a fading sun. Reaching. I wait for the fury that rages with the fall of night in hushed anticipation of my sleepless slaughter of self because each day I am stronger with a boldness of courage I can’t always feel.
Where certainty falls short, faith holds my firm belief.