There are times when I experience a certain calm. As if diving into the ocean, shock gives over to a yielding. A soft sensation of surrender that I will remember and forget a thousand times – and again. An understanding that never arrives announced.
I used to love opening my eyes under water. Searching through the deep. Away from the sureness of the world, and into the endlessness awaiting. I never looked back to the shallows where feet churned sand and bodies broke the surface. I would hold my breath and swim right out to the edge of my beginning – I could only ever get this far, before the tug of fear pulled me back, but I would swim a little further each and every time. Even as a child I did not want the safety of the shore.
This kind of calm, it is a return to that feeling. A remembering of how to swim out and away, to fix my eyes on a limitless unknown, so beautiful for its mystery. You are behind me, I sense the turbid waters you create when you thrash against the waves and I know you are sinking with the ship, struggling in your safety. You will not take that breath and dive under. The truth is you are drowning because you are afraid of the deep – even when I hold out my hand.
We are not the same. We were never going to be the same. I was always going to love you better. Your best offering – your wedding dance, your earnest vows, your dedication – that is how I do it every day. Brave and demanding, and difficult – and always, always searching.
I would have loved you in this way forever – it is easy enough when you do not fear it. That is my love, and that is not how you do it. It is my swimming into the depths whilst you break against the shore.
(I am not the same as you. This certain calm reminds me).
“Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in”
– Leonard Cohen