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eThoughts
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Patterns I (Originally written in January of 1999)
An Ode To Us: Emotional Hummingbirds, Sun Spot Cycles, and Romantic Dinosaurs.
She calls and says she wants to have dinner and she says I am her favorite past love and that she was wrong about trying to make me fit her mold and that I’m actually okay and she now understands why I’m unhappy with another who would not take care of her own responsibility and left it all up to me, even though these two women hang out together on occasion, and then she makes me a couple of tapes with love songs and she asks for a Christmas kiss and says she is not up to anything.
And I say that it is not the same for me because I’m not comfortable being a frame in her movie or a bead on her string (which she denies), but she forwards me a stream-of-consciousness writing of hers in which she says she is an “experience junkie.”
We were not together even though we were and it was not a weave despite the Hallmark sentiments and the sincere, in-the-moment, love rhetoric. And when the experience junkie part of her needed a fix, she moved toward others and masked the self deception with an attack on my insensitivity. It was the usual pattern flavored with the usual innocent eyes.
I am one of the train stops, which she denies, though she continues to have arrival and departure times as she journeys to find herself in others’ love and acceptance, which once acquired have fulfilled her purpose and become mundane and lose the kick and the challenge and the fix necessary for an “experience junkie.”
But she does it because it is her way, she has to keep moving, flitting from experience-limb to experience-limb, bending emotions like a ray of sun through a crystal and pronouncing it a beautiful rainbow, fleeing any sign of nesting and responsibility because those things become, sooner or later, like a high-pitched scream shouting out the incongruence between her vision and her reality.
To tithe to her and move on is that which is most romantic. The angst of what cannot be holds more allure than the embrace of that which can be. The mantel in her romantic house of cards is adorned with the remembrances of her human knick-knacks, dusty with disuse, despite the occasional gaze of her usual innocent eyes and the glow in her heart for all that just couldn’t be.
With profound pronouncements about not living in the past, she proceeds forward, dragging her past, wondering who was her mother?
I laugh. I was with her. She was like the reflectors in the center of the road that act like tire magnets, she jolted me from my sleep and in the end, she profoundly moved me along my path.
She took, but she could not help but give. Like some celestial agreement, we touched each other and moved on, a gravitational fly-by that propelled us onward to the heart of our souls and broke the gravitational pull of the emotional planet on which each of us were stuck.
The hummingbird pollinates even as it flits and the sun disrupts in cycles even as it warms and the dinosaurs actually fly around in our backyards despite supposedly being banished by a heavenly event.
Her story is not so much different from my own after all. The paradox is intact even as it remains elusive. Somehow, we fulfilled our vows.
Out the window of my craft, down on the planet of our sojourn, I can see the swirl of atmosphere, the solid landfall, the watery expanse of ocean, the light of sun and dark of night. I know that there is a hummingbird on its journey, being warmed by the light, and that it is all dinosaur-old.
I have to smile as I go on my way. Somewhere in the heavens, in another craft, she may be doing the same.
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Copyright © 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003, 2002 by Travis
Gibbs
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