The Necessary Risk

It was such a small seed when I first found it. At first I stared at it wonder, turning it over in my fingers and contemplating its surfaces. Then I put it in my pocket and forgot about it for a while. I didn’t think of the seed again until I noticed that a fine little seedling had grown out of my pocket, nurtured by the warmth and darkness. When I gently pulled it out and looked at it again, I felt again that wonder growing in my chest. It was such a fine little seedling. I found a nice jar to plant it in and put in the light, watered it regularly, even sang to it. In just a few weeks it was no longer just a seedling, it was a robust, health-some sapling, eager to be a tree. It grew and grew, and always I marveled at it, delighted in its soft leaves and the way it seem to whisper secrets and possibilities to me. I loved this little tree I had found.

It was such a great fall from such a great height. The leaves and roots tumbled over themselves in a cloud of dirt all the way down to the sidewalk as I watched in horror, every turn catching my breath, every glittering drop of water like a tear. I don’t know how I got down to the sidewalk below my window, how I found myself kneeling in the dirt and broken glass; I had eyes only for the fragile, broken sapling which I cradled in my hands. I could replant it, splint its broken limbs, sing to it again, but it would not live. I knew it. But I did not want to kill it, this beautiful, unexpected sapling I had grown. A wild grief threatened to overwhelm me, kneeling on the sidewalk as people flowed around me, unknowing, indifferent. I sniffled, wiped my eyes angrily with the heel of my hand, and cradled the broken tree to my chest. My heart flopped around like an unhinged mechanism as I raced endlessly up the stairs to my room. It wont die, it wont die, it wont die, raced my thoughts with my feet, repetitive, numb. I wont kill it, I can’t. How can I? Damn it life, don’t take this thing from me, this little dream I’ve been nourishing. I need this tree to live.

Please, I need this tree to live.

Contemplation

There is a door here. If I open it, we will change. I know, can at least anticipate, what changes I might face, what I might bring down on myself. Yet for you, not knowing your bruises or hopes, I do not know what this door will mean to you. I cannot imagine what changes would be evoked in you, what other doors may fly open or shut, if I open this one. Knowing this ignorance, how can I dream of stepping up to this threshold, pushing it open and forcing you through with me? How can I dare in the face of that unknowing?

And yet, I feel that if I do not, dare not open this door, that inaction will in time extract a terrible price on me. This door will become one of many more which will remain closed, diverting me down a path of cowardice which will slowly hollow me out, slowly peel me away from the inside until I am nothing but a brittle wafer of soft skin and sad eyes. It is not that I will die if I do not open this door, that is too crude. It is simply that stepping away from this door will be the first misstep leading to others. Sometimes the path can be recovered later despite back-tracking, misleading sidesteps, but when the path is right there before you, blocked only by a simple door, why veer away, why not go the way you have chosen? Why shouldn’t I open this door? For my own sake I feel I must.

I can see your cheeks and side-long eyes smiling; I can see your wild, curling hair. I can see the presence of secrets which may not exist. I can see moments which have been and moments which have not becoming entangled in my chest so that you needn’t even be here for your smile to flip my heart; I can see my fantasies blooming in an oak tree painted from your throat down to your hips. They are bony, sharp hips, I think. I can see the door between your hips and mine.

I say I can see the door between us, but that is inaccurate, incomplete, just the fantasy, the game of pretending. I see us standing together before it, as if we face a mirror of reckoning. I am looking at the door and at you and at our reflection in the gleaming surface, yet though I am looking, I cannot follow your glance or see where you are gazing. This is no dream of mine where I can become anyone, see through any eyes and feel the heart behind them; I cannot enter you here. I can only ask, “what do you see?” and hope I understand your answer. Do you see me, the door, us standing before it? Do you know the choice I face because you face it too? Are you, even now, also contemplating the consequences of opening the door? Or do I only imagine I see you here; is that why I cannot see which way you turn your face?

Again I realize the vastness of my unknowing, my inability to anticipate the changes this door could mean for you. While the door remains shut, we may continue as we are; if it opens, our story will move in a new direction. My path begs that I open the door and discover the curve of the path beyond; my path demands I go through. Yet this is not an action for myself alone, I know that if I act you too will be affected, and knowing this and caring, I cannot take this step rashly, recklessly. I must hesitate, even though I know my way and yearn to begin. Again I ask myself, how can I dare, how can I presume this upon you?

I ask and only one thought remains: I must.

Loquats

There is a loquat tree in the courtyard where I live, and I noticed the other day that it is all covered in flower buds and it looks like its going to bear a lot of fruit. I read that they are a winter-bearing tree, but there were fruit on the tree when I moved here in May, and some remained through the summer, so I wasn’t sure. In any case, it looks to be true; the fruit I saw originally must have been leftovers. I’m very much looking forward to this season’s crop. I haven’t had an opportunity to eat, really eat and indulge in, loquats since I was a child. This past year or so, I have stumbled across one or two, but they weren’t ripe or tasty.

Ardent Vocabulary: Shit

Welcome to my newest ongoing series, Ardent Vocabulary. Over the years, I’ve noticed that many words have taken on more meaning for me than is covered by the dictionary or common slang usuage. I find these colorations to be one of the more fascinating aspects of language, which is constantly growing and fluctuating as people interact. Enter the Ardent Vocabulary series: in each episode, I’ll explore a particular word (or set of synonyms), looking both at official and unofficial definitions, as well as exploring my personal thoughts and experiences concerning that word. Just to kick things off on a fun and irreverant note, I’ve decided to start with shit. So, without further ado, let the definitions begin.

Open Letter to My Dreamspace

Dear Dreamspace,

I think you have AM and PM confused. Don’t get me wrong, that was an awesome time, but getting up at 7PM is rather bad for my health. Lets not do that anymore, okay? Can we work out some new schedule that involves me getting sleepy at night times, and waking up at morning times? Is there some sort of circadian-rhythm-light-sensitivity button that we can reset? We have such a beautiful thing going and I don’t want it to end, but seriously, if we don’t work this out some way, things are going to get real miserable real fast.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you do though, far from it! Things between us have been so vivid lately; you’re such an artist, Dreamspace! Its intoxicating what you’ve been doing with my sense of touch. Keep up the good work, dearest, I love what you do.

Most sincerely,
Ardent