There used to be so many holes in her gate. Her fence. The walls around her inner-space. But not anymore.
(smiling)
I am Her and She is Me. Our brain relived a nightmare last night. We don’t drunk dial. We “dream text.” She gets scared and I don’t notice. People mix together. It’s a rehab thing. Temporary. Thank God. Sorry if I was mistaken. I just can’t tell. I’ve never felt so strange to myself.
This stroll is lovely, though.
My friend Mike shares while we’re walking: “Catch the moments when wholeness happens. Make them a part of your being. Rub your hands together, touch your ears, listen and integrate.” He doesn’t use those words. He’s less eloquent, but more real. Choppy and candid. A fellow artist I trust. I always trust the ones who speak poorly. The articulate ones can be tricky.
The negative moments stand out too hard; don’t give them the attention they say they deserve. Allow them to die of neglect. Feed the other side. The purple side.
Her brain is mine. We have to share it, unfortunately. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like there’s enough space for the both of us.
She wants to look for the Tigers, but the Tigers don’t exist anymore. This is 2018 motherfucker. There’s nothing wrong with your life. Only thinking makes it so. Just like the philosophers have always said. Be Here Now. Just like her favorite Soren once wrote:
“...in the heart of nature, where a person, free from life's often nauseating air, breathes more freely, here the soul opens willingly to every noble impression. Here one comes out as nature's master, but he also feels that something higher is manifested in nature, something he must bow down before; he feels a need to surrender to this power that rules it all.” -Kierkegaard
Her nauseating air was her memory. A radio of narcissistic anxiety. Warranted then, but not anymore. So She opens her soul to the noble impression of mailboxes. The mailboxes are everywhere. She can’t stop staring. Oh, and a golden retriever! It’s magic.
Mike, her walking friend, is an artistic fitness instructor. His calves are bigger than her face. She hates weights. She was an aerobics instructor, once. Paid for her artificially pretend enthusiasm. She can excite a corpse with compliments. She’s a machine in that way. A cheerleader for the cheerless. For people who’ve forgotten their purple in their pockets. They’re Purple. They’re Passion. They’re Love.
They’re. They are. That was not a grammatical error. She hopes I remember. She hopes you do, too. We’re Worth.
These are called Vinca. The Passionate Pink. Magenta. They’re hard to kill. Vincas have wild roots. They thrive despite negligence. Passion is like that.
My dad taught me when I was young; he told me all about the flowers. I memorized their names. We watched the clouds and labeled the trees. My dad taught me a lot of things, but I choose to only remember the nice ones. Nice. I can be nice to myself now; the fear is erroding. This makes room for forgiveness. Forgiveness makes room for the power Soren mentioned earlier.
Nice. It’s nice to have choices, it’s nice to never be trapped. Children can be bound by people with stronger arms...bound with bodies and loud noises. But adults can’t. Even if they deny it.
This sacred ability to unbind oneself is a great responsibility, a great gift. Freedom is such a tricky, special thing. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Did you see those purple leaves?
Flashes of Arizona reframed. For the better. Because that’s what adults can do. When fear is released, joy is what’s left. ‘Maybe Arizona won’t be so bad after all,’ she thinks.
We love our purple mornings.