There is not enough coffee this morning to write myself out of this corner. In trying my best to create something that parallels the way I am feeling about life and circumstance and love at the moment, I find myself writing invariably about death. I am not sure why, other than it is life’s one great constant, it underscores everything I try to do right now. I would like to expand the thought and state that I do not mean death, solely in the passing of life, to cease to breathe, to leave our human form. I mean more so death in a cyclical manner, a measure of change and a means of becoming something new.
I have begun to take note recently of the layers I can glean from those I keep close company with. The ways in which we as emotional and often times impractical beings hold onto shreds of life and keep them in convenient places within, tucked between receipts in the billfold, collecting dust in the enclaves of our collar bones. What I have begun to wonder and what seems to constantly appear in my writing is not so much why we hold onto these pieces, as it is inevitably our experience that shapes us in life, but why do these shreds become visible at these specific moments in singular specific lighting?
Why is that the way you drive can tell me more about your aches than any words I see come from your lips? And how does making breakfast stand in as a substitute for, I love you? And why does space feel less like breathing and more like unstitched wounds? How does one take the necessary steps to properly categorize how to relate to another human being?
So, I tried writing out systematically the way we get to know another person; how we gain them and how we inevitably lose them. I tried it out as analogous to everything from baking bread, to growing grass, to sculpting, and even sailing. What I found, was that not one action stand in for the others, or that one makes more sense, but rather that they are all the same thing. That in any process, no matter the contents and the structure, there is only a circular motion moving towards death, and the inevitable release of whatever you held dear yesterday.
Paul Harding in Tinkers writes, “…although we are not at ease in this world, it is all we have, that it is ours but that it is full of strife, so that all we can call our own is strife…”