The Wind Tastes Like Wine Tonight

It's one of those perfectly peaceful, utterly magical evenings.  There is a light breeze with a bit of a nip to it coming directly from the West, a gentle, cool kiss on a dry, feverishly warm forehead, a comforting of the soul.  the outside world is silent for the most part but for a few passing cars on the main street and an occasional youth blathering away on a cell phone.  A yellowish glow is on the little chunk of downtown I can see from my front door from a lone, dim streetlight, and I am transfixed not by the light, but by the shadows cast, the dark spaces.  It's all so dream-like, so camera-captured still. 

It smooths over the rough spots I've been stumbling through for a while now. I've been in those shadows, caught between streetlamps in twilight, in a real-life limbo, neither the movie nor the audience.  Other than factors completely beyond my scope of control, it seems Time has begun chipping away at vital parts of my past, taking people out of those glory days of childhood.  A litany of names immediately begins to pop into my mind, names with direct ties to some of the most joyous eras of my younger days, the famous and the more personal.  My emotional depths have been plumbed on nearly every aspect of my life, often in tumultuous, wild swings as one situation after another presents itself in multi-headed hydra fashion.  To grapple with this monster requires a unique skill set, borne of experience, inexhaustible research, and endless powers of endurance. 

And then there are the quiet times, when I need a break from me and my problems, not yet a numbness, but a more Zen-like approach that has been crafted over decades of life's monkey wrenches and u-turns on hairpin curves. There are moments when all I can control is my own breathing, and that is with great effort.  But it is something I can control, and that gives me all the control I may need to get through it. During these more solemn hours, tears may come in the form of release as I finally let my defenses down enough to feel the hurt that has been waiting for my attention long enough.  Sometimes staring out the wide open front door is the end result, and that works, too. 

And on a night like this, so soft and full of velvet and silk, it's ok to go to sweet memories of those who touched me and left indelible marks of profound happiness upon my mortal coil, those who have moved on to more cosmic places. It's only right to think of my beginnings, my roots, only right to honor the people who were there for many, many years, even my not-so-stellar ones.  I can breathe in the night air and teleport back to a golden age of creeks and crayfish, frisbees and crickets, music and mayhem, laughter and innocence, and deep bonds of friendship that would last a lifetime.  I could lose my way a thousand times, and someone precious would be waiting to guide me patiently back on course. 

When I cannot still my mind, when I feel it difficult to catch my breath, when I become my worst foe, I circle back down to home.  Somewhere inside, I find the calmer waters beyond the rapids, the pool where I can pull the makeshift raft to shore and bathe in it until the grime of the world is washed away.  Had I more energy, I would take an ambling stroll in the darkness, head to the back streets of town on the hills above and pass by unnoticed by the sleeping houses full of families with dramas of their own unfolding.  I would walk under trees burgeoning with new summer greenery and marvel at the patterns they cast as they are blown about by the wind under the misty orange haze of old streetlights.  I would send my feet on familiar roads, roads so well known and often traveled that I have worn my own groove in them and can trod upon them in near blindness. This town, for all its faults and flaws, is home, and I've always had that, at least. 

But some nights are made for sitting on the front porch, for letting the breeze find me instead of searching for it.  There is only so much doing I can do to get through what I need to get through.  This is sitting time, thinking time, feeling time. 

Darkness has filled the whole sky now, a violet, midnight blue dotted with star spots.  A bicycle is the only vehicle that has passed on the main drag for several minutes.  The trees bow and sway in their evening dance, give the streetlights someone to play with.  There's a tickling itch in the base of my brain as reality tries to start worming its way in there.  I'm not ready yet, I still need time to cling to the dream before fully awakening.  A blanket is in order, my afghan in various shades of purple.  And a hot cup of tea, chamomile perhaps, just to be old-fashioned and quaint about it, yes.  It is time to listen to the quiet and study the light and shadows and make peace with the darker parts of my world. 

And breathe.

Love and light,
Tanya