I write to heal. Words moving across a page propel stagnant fear onward and forward into a stream of energy, and where there is movement, there is life-force, and and this steady river of consciousness returns me safely back home.
***
The fear
seizes me on Saturday evening, out-of-the-blue, no tangible reason why,
consuming and loud, tensing for a threat.The
warning sprints in a blurry collage, speeding through disjointed scenes,
screaming to notice a danger I cannot see.
In this order, a jumbled train of images: Walgreens, the house on the corner, my front windows emanating a greenish-hued energy, as if windows could radiate vibes, but in the intuitive mind, they do, and now I understand why.
In this order, a jumbled train of images: Walgreens, the house on the corner, my front windows emanating a greenish-hued energy, as if windows could radiate vibes, but in the intuitive mind, they do, and now I understand why.
At first,
I analyze to find the root, the thought, the experience, the exact reason why I
feel such heightened concern. And then all the pieces fall into place when I
see him -- who I describe as a craft beer-like hipster -- staring through my
blinds, opened, because I want to let natural light in, and light can attract
moths, tempt parasites, and soon the unreasonable fear has a reason, and a
face, and the nightmare takes shape.
Observant.
The police
officer calls me observant.
I think
it's a compliment, and then as he continues to speak, I become aware that this
is not what he means. But whatever he means doesn't concern me, I dismiss him
as quickly as he discredits me. I trust my intuition, my instincts, my
feelings, and see the several calls to 911 as societal protocol that will
assist me in breaking my lease without financial penalties.
Later in
the week, I stand at the police station, harassment report in hand, hating him.
Then I realize he is unworthy of the energy taken to hate. I feel nothing,
then.
I am
exhausted. I am tired in a way I've never been before. I'm experiencing the shockwaves
from the earthquake, abruptly shaking and tearing the roots that were beginning
to sink down, unfurl, and mindfully take hold. Swept up in the adrenaline rush,
coursing through my system like twenty espresso shots, I've existed in a state
governed by my survival instinct.
Wired to
flee, wired to fly, not to fight, not to freeze, I race back to a place where
trees will sing me to sleep, where a pit bull will go on walks with me, and her
owner will listen to me as she waters a garden and plants tomato seeds.
Here,
there are homemade tacos, neighbors who awww over my glittery eyeliner, and to
my delight, happily show me their sparkly makeup supplies.
Here,
there is a guest who brings me a chocolate bar when he hears about what's
happened, tells me to stay strong, and being around him is like leaning into
the softest morning rays of light. There’s an ease, a sense of knowing, a
warmth that embraces and makes me feel secure in being seen.
This is
the best of masculine energy. This is healthy, wholesome, respectful, safe. I
don't mind that he sees me with messy hair, makeup free, and that I take a too
big-of-a-bite out of a breakfast taco and blush very bright as he watches,
softly and sweetly laughing at me, and says that girls with appetites are
attractive, they are comfortable in their own skin.
Feeling
comfortable in my skin has been a lifelong narrative. I felt at home in myself
that Monday evening, swaying my hips to the soundtrack of "20th Century
Women," washing dishes with the kitchen window open to let in the fresh
air, and preparing my lunch for tomorrow -- an act of self-care, of self-love.
And I
thought, as I moved around carefree in a nest of my own creation, how
comfortable and how in love I am in this life of my own making. And then, the
story shifts. I cannot resist what is, I can only move forward. And moving
forward may mean not staying here.
“You were terrified, Meredith. Either you will
recover and find your place here, or you simply won't, and you'll have to do
what is best for you, then.”
My path, my journey in Austin, what I thought I was here to do, it's
all changed, and the intentions have been rearranged, too.
I can't root to a place, perhaps, or not yet, but I can strengthen
and nurture the roots to myself, a core never to be threatened, a piece
incapable of being misplaced and even threatened.
If I'm truly listening, vowing to make the decision best aligned
with my healing, then I have to be ready to let go of the original plan. I need
to consistently deconstruct my own mental barriers, reclaim and nurse my power
to stretch my wings.
I trust my inner sight to guide me, and in time, or maybe
even later today, I’ll feel the flood of courage encouraging gently to pull up
the blinds, open the windows, and breathe in the air, because windows are meant
to be opened, and I won’t give him the power to take away my right to have fresh
Texas air.