Monday, March 23, 2015

The Name of This Garden

I have chosen to call this garden The Island of Trees. I can feel you sloping backward already. Am I going to be poked and scraped by branches and bark until all that's left of me is red pulp and puddles of bitter tears?

But it is not so. There are more flowers than trees here, and the name of a garden is only what it is—a harmless name. All day I've been hemmed in by rose bushes, searching for a way to forget that place, the island, and all I keep turning up are old shoelaces and pebbles.

They say time is the revelator. There's an art to waiting. You can do it in such a way that it doesn't feel like waiting. You can see opportunity in the now to create something or nurture someone or maybe even nurture yourself, especially if you're stressed or weary.

Still. In and amongst all that, I don't feel I'm on the up and up. I'm the butt of the joke, but I don't want to be. I try to laugh along with the rest of them but my laugh is nervous, tight, somehow limited. By what? This is what my search entails—finding just enough forgetfulness to loosen my laugh, to murder the ghosts that bind me.

I giggle often when I'm around people. It's because my body is like an elastic band stretched as far as it can go. A chortle or high pitched giggle releases tension, though not nearly enough.

How and where do I find the way to forget, ever so slightly? What am I missing? The Christians keep telling me it is the Christ, but it doesn't make sense. I don't think it's supposed to. Christ, apparently, is what gets me to let go and it's only a matter of when.

So I search and do stuff while I wait. Maybe I'll call out to the silver-haired dish woman if her cohorts quit judging me. Don't try to convince me they're not.

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