Despite batting around .950 these past weeks (which would be extraordinarily good for baseball) and also despite finding the world’s most delightful tenants for the Ranch (seriously), having the cutest lizard in the world in the honeysuckle and the sweetest cats and a kind, handsome husband, and intelligent, loving children, and the monsoon starting with lots of excitement, lightning, and sweet rain, despite being the animating force of one of the genuinely most enjoyable lives ever lived, I’m a little bit blue. I know this is wrong, because no one so fortunate should ever be sad, but it’s hard to use logic to heal sorrow.
I’m having the same old trouble in a very narrow line of life; I cheat the suspicious processes of love, and I pay later.
I do this all of the time; I deliberately get involved with people outside of their normal ability to interact. If I’m interested in someone, I slip past their mental security guards, I ditch the door-watchers of their souls, I flow like smoke through their vents, past their common sense, and there isn’t honestly much they can do to resist.
In those circumstances, when people find me standing next to them, sparkling with a rather unusual excitement and zest for life, they might spontaneously do things that they don’t normally do; they branch out, they unbend, they confirm or expand on the story written on the inside walls of their palaces or their shacks… they love me back, we have a glorious time together. But.. there is often a time limit. Sometimes people come to resent the intimacy that they’ve granted me. Sometimes they are upset by things that I say/do/feel. And of course life is always simpler without magicians in the room.
And it doesn’t make me angry when I’m shut out, and it’s not even really confusing, and it doesn’t devalue the closeness that maybe I stole; it just hurts, because I’m the dog outside the door.
For some reason, I think of my university career, which ended abruptly after two years; I’d refused to listen to anyone, and I started as a freshman by taking entirely higher level courses (professors are happy to sign the waiver cards for students who are obviously up to level) and at the beginning of my junior year, they said that I couldn’t get a diploma, ever, until I’d gone back and taken all of the tedious introductory sessions, and I said, “I’m not doing that, ever”, and it was over.
And it doesn’t really change anything; it doesn’t go back in time and ruin any of the joy I had, at 16, sitting in on advanced discussions on literature, or psychology, or architecture. It just means that we all lost an opportunity, but life is made of potential, and it’s not like “when one door closes, God opens another”, a phrase that almost makes me insane with rage against stupid- the doors were always there, always available.
It’s just that the only way some people can see them is if they’ve had a shock.
At times like this, when I’m heart-sore, I try to be proactive. I reach out to people who love me (but they aren’t always available) I cuddle my cats (but I can’t always find them) I sit under the sky (which is, thank God, always above me).
It just takes a bit of time. As ever, I throw myself into my work, and I review the many ways in which I am fortunate, blessed, surrounded by love and excitement.
But I can’t help the ache.