I’m wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
The peepers are singing in the cool Spring air. Night has fallen like an old fashioned piece of lingerie. I have reached the point in the quarantine where I am yearning. For what, I could not tell you. It is some deep, quiet ache — like a forgotten fresh water spring or river welling up from an abyss.
Thoughts of my father have been close these past weeks and the tears even closer. This is part of the yearning too – where grief and hope and acceptance and tiredness all live together in one entangled heap. I can’t help but think that this new way of living is somehow healthier even though at times, it is more painful. Though there are moments, minutes, hours, days, when I want to crawl into the lap of denial and pretend that none of this is happening. Pretend that when things open backup, I will just embrace the same things I did before — the same acceptance of the illusion of control, the same clinging to the myth that to rush and to acquire and to be driven is the best way, the only way to be successful.
The thought that I will return to “normal” as if nothing had happened terrifies me.
But on nights like tonight – with a cool Spring breeze and the song of the peepers lulling me to sleep, and the rain pitter-patting on the tin roof, I do not not want to go back to that rushed way of life. That empty striving after a sense of control that is only skin deep. That hides a sad and scared little girl who just misses her daddy and wishes he were here to chase away the monsters.
It is possible – perhaps even healthy – to be afraid and vulnerable as well as strong and interdependent. Perhaps that is what I am really yearning for, the ability to live as authentically as possible. Which for me, means all of these things: vulnerability, strength, softness, healthy boundaries, give and take, and push and pull.
This slower pace of living, which mimics a little of the slower pace of years gone by — I don’t want to lost that once this is all over. That slower pace is what I yearn for. With time to breathe – inhale, exhale – feel the rhythm of life switch to a slow dance rather than a fast fox trot. To watch the flowers bloom in my garden, to see a butterfly emerge from its cocoon, to pick the ripe sweet tomatoes off the vine, to sit under the maple tree and do nothing but empty my mind and soak up the sun.
Time to hear the peeper song in the evening and not rush to begin the next, very important thing.
During the month of April, I’ll be participating in the Blogging A-Z Challenge.
A member of the Water Street Writers, Mikaela D’Eigh is a writer, poet, gardener, mental wellness advocate, and a lover of Scotch, K-Pop, and KDramas. She writes about anything and everything, using all the crayons in the box. Currently, she lives out in the country with two Egyptian gods disguised as cats, a herd of cows, and the occasional flock of wild turkeys. Check her out at La Belle Dame Merci, Medium, Facebook, or Instagram for more essays, poetry, and shenanigans.
Image © http://www.mikaeladeigh.com