I’m walking toward you, albeit, at a snail’s pace.
I keep turning around, veering off this way and that way, but I find my way back to the trail and I head in your direction, again.
I don’t know who you are or what you look like or smell like or sound like, but I can feel you; I have for a long time now.
I’ve been getting to know you through others.
They leave me clues. They show me the good parts of you, but they’re not you, so I move on and they move on.
My heart, it aches for a while, how could it not?
I have to mourn the loss of you, over and over again. The dream I think I’ve actualized, that I’ve finally reached you, only to discover I haven’t.
After the sadness passes, I wake to the lessons. I’m growing in each misstep along the way, because, they’re not missteps, they’re part of the route to me, to you:
I’m discovering who I am and what I need from myself and from you, my partner.
I feel like I’m ready for you, but maybe I’m not yet, I don’t know.
In the meantime, I’ve settled in to this solo mission, but I wouldn’t be telling the truth if I didn’t express how much I miss you each morning and each night, and in every moment in between.
I want to share this view with you: the coyote that sauntered by the studio the other day. Or, this, right now: the morning stillness, the half filled, still steaming canister of coffee. I’m staring at the grass; it’s finally turning green again, except for this one patch that’s not getting enough water.
The air is filled with the aroma of my yearning, for the day when I can pour you a cup and we can sit side by side, looking out the window, while we decide which way we’d like to walk today, together. ~Rebecca