War

I can’t name this thing that I feel. I can’t see it’s face or know it’s purpose. Only it’s presence lingers and resurfaces.

I’ve been here before wearing this coat, or maybe it’s more like long underwear hidden from others layering me like a second skin. Heavy like a suit of armor, or maybe it’s an elephant, pressing on my chest, is it protective or simply restrictive?

I’ve been here before, maybe now it’s called my address, not just a season trying to pass on but rather a steady place to live.

Really I’m fine, pursuing my life, seeking joy, I’m ok and alive. Life is good, worthy of time, people are in it, they fill it with meaning, purpose and joy…so what is it, this thing that I feel? Listless, mediocrity, routine, humdrum, do my smile lines that crinkle really reach my eyes?

My house is a boat and my life fits in it, rolling along shrieking down steep pitches that bounce me down a creek and under bridges, laughing while trying to keep the things I’ve brought along with me inside instead of out. Holding precious memories, moments of fun too quickly gone, back to rowing my boat along the river. Mostly it feels endless this unceasing rowing. I’m tired so tired of this endless repetitive rowing. Surviving on my own rowing my own boat, this journey seems lacking in something, my tastebuds have all gone numb. Am I looking back for something I missed, or just ever present in all of this.

Rapids and danger keep growing, I’m left managing the pressure, don’t let anything fall over board, keep moving, looking forward and living right now in the present, when did rafting a river get so micromanaged. Two hands for rowing none left for saving the glass jars that are holding the joy, laughter and meaning, so fragile they seem, from the threat ever pressing the fear of overboarding, loosing something precious at the bottom of this sea.

I’m tired of rowing, where is this danger flowing, what direction am I facing, I’ve forgotten where I’m going. What is this feeling that has no name. An endless battle what am I fighting?

Looking back, how it lasts, how many battles is this? Is it one that keeps reoccurring, or is this a different number? Perhaps its scale is larger, painting time into a bigger picture,  needing to measure in duration, this battle should be called War.

Perhaps it’s an untangling of something much deeper, or a recalibration of normal. A letting go of something, making space for that thing coming next that I’m not close to being ready for. Maybe it’s a struggle to balance internal realigning, a connection in the fixing I didn’t know was broken. Maybe it’s simply a softening of a hard or sharp edged place, or the thickening of a callus I’ll need as a buffer to cushion a blow.

I don’t know it’s name, it’s purpose or it’s ending. Only the consternation of its tangled up presence, continually robbing me of my sleep. Rolling me over in the dark to write it’s own words, stealing away the time I thought was reserved for my tired head to snooze the second it hit the pillow.

Is it work, is it money, is it a dog denied his walking? Is it fear, is it scary, is it decisions that make me weary? Is it dinner planning, or daylight running too quickly into night? The one more task to get done again, or just the future wanting some plans that I keep ignoring? The list too long for everyone, or my forgetting to be nothing? A text unread, an email sent, an alarm to eagerly approaching to jar me from my restless bed back into a monday morning?

I don’t know what it is I’ve wracked my head for a label or at best a level of comprehension, it’s not a noun or a verb… I’m left with just these feelings. I can’t describe his face even as it lies pressed up to mine, he’s holding hands with too many others, a tangled mess of faceless feels knotting me in circles.

I am at war! This is how it feels to be held captive by a band of masked emotions, until I manage to solve this riddle I’m left with only questions. What is this place, what is its name, what purpose does it have? Perhaps in knowing I can call it’s name and find the peace I seek.

Perhaps it’s simply a battle of being tangled in the wrong questions, rowing round in circles. Riddle me this, riddle me that, maybe I have the answers but the questions still need the asking. Seeking time to unravel and untangle its own name for this battle of tossing and turning for days. This inner struggle, at last when it ends, I hope to know its name.