A song for you: Ben Howard: With the Wolves.
Let me tell you where I am when I listen to this song.
It is the summer of 2010. I am laying on my single bed next to the window with the blinds wide open. This is the first room I’ve had to myself since 107 Sago Lane–six years ago. I am changing. I am going through every drawer and box I have. Old letters and photos litter the floor– a mass cleansing. I am creating a pile of things to give away. My friends are saying “You’ll be back in 18 months! Don’t donate that! You’ll miss your bathing suits when you come back! You’ll need those shelves!” But I don’t mind. I toss them toward the door. It feels SO good. I am every other minute checking the time to see when Ken will be back from work. His face is still a novelty to me. Freckles and sunburn. I love him. I am leaving. These days I find it is hard to define myself without including him. He is part of me. I am just barely transitioning into this union. I am learning how to let go of being alone– of being only me. I am learning this amidst a commitment to leave him and be one with someone else. With a Father I have not had the full privilege of knowing yet. I am promising both a big part of my life. I want so badly to be ready for them. I am coming home from work with my lifeguard whistle around my neck. Two whistles means get out of the pool. I jump in car barefoot and drive home. Hand out the window with the sun urging me on. My top drawer is full of symbols. My bed side is full of journals. I read them over and over and try to track where I’ve been. The last 6 months have blendered on by. I have been 15 different women, all rapidly transforming into the next before they can look in the mirror and see the first. It is a rapid, exhilarating feeling to sense that you cannot keep up with yourself.
That agile soul that I was then– I seem to be slower now, a little less directed. I came home, 18 months later, more one with the Father, who taught me to be one with Ken. Now we all work together.
The ooo ooo’s stream through the laptop speakers. I am re-arranging the post-it’s on the wall. I am surrounded by a gate of photos. I am eighteen I am twenty-two I am twelve years old. Even now I stare into the black of the sleeping computer screen, blonde bangs in my eyes and bun on top of my head and think “I look like me. Like me back then.” I will always be this woman. An identity perpetual.