first of all, i need
these. just had to make that clear, to start.
//
turns out, once you decide to open yourself up to what the world may have for you --- specifically what good the world may have for you --- that good just may be drawn to you, drawn to the bronze of your skin, like the quick happy flit of minnows in a stream, a flash of silver at your ankles that thrills you, takes your breath away.
//
i'm a homebody. if left to my own devices, i might never leave the house. i don't particularly love the house i currently live in, but i love being alone, insulated, permitted to make choices without consulting anyone. i love the freedom of being detached from peoples' needs, more specifically their needs for me: their tasks, their demands, their discomfort with technology, their laziness. my current profession puts me on the front line of peoples' needs all day long with nothing to shield me from the barrage and no one to whom to delegate. being able to meet so many peoples' needs and fulfill (often exceed) so many expectations does satisfy an aspect of my personality. but it thoroughly exhausts another aspect of what i am at my core. i need solitude. i need
protected solitude. i do not need for everyone to understand this; i've outgrown that aching desire to be understood by every person i meet. but i need to be allowed this protected solitude. if you press me too hard or belittle this need, you will never be close to me, and that's not intended to be an elitist snotty comment, it's just a fact.
so if i have a day off, i sleep in. it's the first step to recovery after a week of being subject to the immediate and pressing exposure to the needs of my bosses, coworkers, and patients. i make coffee. i eat breakfast. i do not put on music. i relish the slow and empty silence. i can handle input (incoming correspondence, an episode of a show i missed during the week), but there's little-to-no output; i don't respond to emails, i swipe aside most text messages. and i certainly do not speak to anyone, unless i absolutely have to, and if such necessity does arise i use as few words as possible.
for some reason, this past friday was different.
//
i saw my elderly neighbor helen (88 years old, to be exact) working in her garden across the street and i was struck through with the urge --- and yes, the desire --- to talk with her. given how foreign this impulse was, since i was only a few hours into my day off and had nowhere near the customary amount of recovery time under my belt to be ready to interact with humans, i stopped. i examined the impulse for veins of pity, obligation, or pressure to conform to social normalities. i found none of these things. i found nothing but straightforward, true desire.
and how strange it can be, am i right, to pull something from the sludge of one's soul --- to turn it around and to find nothing wrong with it, no ulterior motive, no external pressures --- no clambering effort to please something invisible, but looming? that something so singular and pure could still be unearthed from inside me, a person so wrought with baggage and the need to please others, astounds me. it shocks me. it gives me hope.
so i shuffled across the street in my tank top and hot pink shorts and flip flops, feeling like a fourth-grader selling thin mints, but filled with a woman's purpose. helen looked up from her botanical tinkering and smiled slightly. "hi, helen," i swung a violet mason jar filled with water in my right hand. "i just wanted to come over and talk with you."
and just like that, a door between us opened --- i would not say it opened wide, because helen and i barely know another, and we may never, so --- but an open door is an open door, and seeing as i am unaccustomed to being voluntarily open to others, it felt like something important.
we chatted, we laughed, i complimented her flowers. she invited me to see an unusually blossoming hosta plan by her front door, and then she invited me in. i felt immediately uncomfortable; i hadn't planned on going
in. "oh, no," i objected, firstly because i did not want to go in, and partly because objecting felt like the socially acceptable thing to do. because people don't
go in each others' houses nowadays. people don't...
call on each other. it's simply not done. i felt this cold steely truth about compartmentalized, autonomous living clang against my spine. my feet remained planted on the concrete in front of her house. "i don't want to invade your space." but helen paid me no mind. "come on," she said, marching up her front steps as if i hadn't said a thing. and i had no choice but to follow.
//
we talked about her grandchildren; i said i liked her kitchen cabinets; toward the end, she spoke to me about her sister who had died at age 90, her daughter who had died so much younger. i did not follow the timeline and it did not feel right to ask. there were 9 green bananas laid on the counter to ripen. there was a painting on the wall, a large square canvas, covered with taupes and blues and still somehow heartbreakingly spare.
"do you drink?" i tilted my head to the left and down, trying to catch her eye (she is a tiny birdlike person, i tower above her even in a slouch). "we're going to have to have a drink together one of these nights. what's your drink?"
helen grinned up at me as we made our way to the door. "old style," she told me conspiratorially. "i like the cheap stuff."
"ah, yeah?" i laughed. "well i'm gonna get you some and we're gonna drink together soon." we were making our way across the street so helen could talk to another neighbor, john (she knows everyone), and she seemed to be concentrating on not tripping on the asphalt. she didn't respond, and i thought perhaps i'd gotten too familiar. "you let me know," she said drily. "i will," i said, with a surge of relief. "you get ready."
walking toward the safety of my little rectangle of cinderblock and siding, the day felt full to its very corners, no hidden motives or snarling needs, just deep breaths and the bracing clarity of a bright, bright sun.
