“In order for the moonflower to completely open, it has to bathe in darkness. I am not a big fan of the dark. It scares me. Still. Yet I cannot walk by this flower without bowing to it, without putting my face close to its opened-by-the-dark heart.”
I am intimidated at cataloguing times of darkness because not only am I afraid of the dark, I am afraid of stacking up towers of memory that threaten me. Sometimes I feel like my life has been either a long, disappointing not-happily-ending-lifetime movie or actually series of movies because I have so many dark days it is almost comical.
Like my new-still-in-therapy-probation-therapist said, “You are interested in too many things” maybe it is the unprocessed darkness soup I have on my metaphorical stove. Maybe that is it.
Maybe I have never bathed in the separate flavors of darkness soup so they haven’t been able to turn into stepping stones I may rise above so the suction moves me instead into infinitely hellacious quicksand, which I’ve learned doesn’t actually exist in the way we might think it does.
And I edit myself.
I stop myself thinking “Julie, you want to publish this and right now you are sounding more than a little ridiculous. I know Beth the dog is wandering about and I hear the sweet little chirping bird and you, in this downward spiraling rant, are sounding like…. A fire engine rumbling on your front porch without any specific fire to put out but it can smell the smoke, continually, always looking threatening so it just sits there, rumbling, doesn’t even have the siren on.”
My timer goes off signifying I’ve been attempting to make some semblance of form from this dark amorphous blob and it’s time to stop.
Even in this gobbled gook I see threads I may return to for clarity: the darkness soup turned into stepping stone soup. The fire truck, loudly idling. Lots of smoke, no seemingly productive fire.
Do you see anything else of merit I might write my way into more deeply from what I’ve written here?