catch and release

i understand the hardening now, how the creases get so deep in the skin.  how the eyes sink and the heart splits. that, perpetually, is my problem. my problem is that i understand. hello, it’s me, the fence sitter.  i can see it from all sides.  how the bitterness boils, the sadness seeps in, how the pain and anger begin to change our chemistry. i can see the why and the how. it makes it harder for me to be objective when i wear everyone else’s shoes so well. my own shoes seem to give me blisters. imagine that.

i get it. now. i get how women lived for years upon years. i understand why some people stay. Thoreau was quoted to say ‘the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.’ that was always my favorite quote of his, and how i didn’t know it then, but now, i get it. because for some, in the face of others, it’s simply easier to shove oneself down. to suck it up, to shove it down and wait for the next life, the next chance for change.

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this kid who rarely ever sobs… who cries for hurt feelings and concerns about if birds are sad or cats are lonely ~ rarely ever sobs for himself. this is a double edged sword. this kid who rarely ever tantrums, who keeps himself from crying over true sadness and grief. this is a double edged sword. sure, it’s nice for what is socially acceptable and how to be civil while in a restaurant. but i see more, i see the process in him. the thought, the tear choked back, the swallowing of it. and i want to let him know that it’s ok to cry, that he doestn’ need to choke on his sadness under the table or under the blankets. but how can i teach him these things when i dont’ practice them myself? i’m such the hypocrite saying ‘let it out, it’ll free you.’ as i pack my bags in choked up silence. 

sometimes in life we get focused on the things, the objects, the attachments… we get so focused that we forget that life dives deeper than that.

we spent about an hour at the pond last week, all the while he was playing with this stick. this perfectly shaped stick that made a fishing pole and many other things that three year old boys like. it was perfect for poking algae, it was perfect for pointing at geese. it was perfect.

we said goodbye to the pond, to the honking geese trailing after us in search of more crumbs. we hiked back up the trail in the heat of the day with no more water and lots more sun. i carried him for some of the way because he has this way of stopping directly infront of me and hanging on my legs right at my kneecaps, he has this way of asking so nicely ‘could you please carry me momma?’ who could resist the 50lb bag of sugar?

i carry him for a little bit, we sit to rest, we get back up and walk hand in hand. we cruise through trees, jump through grass and eventually wind our way back to the fountain where it all began. suddenly he looks at both his hands and says “my stick! where is my stick?”

oh no. i can see this is going to be a problem. who knows where that stick could be. our empty sigg bottles are telling me it’s time to go, and our empty bellies are leading us in the direction of the car, but his empty hands are keeping his feet firmly planted.

he cries. we sit and talk. he tells me “i’ll wait here, you go find it.” but that’s not an option. he’s thirsty and tired and doesn’t want to hike back down to look for it, and i’m thirsty and tired and cannot carry him one more mile. we sit where we are for a few minutes. he cries some more. we slowly make our way back to the car. while he’s in my arms, walking through the parking lot, he says in between tears, ”i want to smash all these cars!” and i comment, “i know. it’s so sad. you are so sad about missing your stick.” and he crumpled and softened in big wet sobs. i knew in that moment it wasn’t about the stick.

it is finally the release of all sadness for all sticks.  all treasures everywhere that had been left behind. it is the accumulation of worry and mourning and grief and sadness and frustration over the life events that have happened around him. it is so very sad.

as the distance grows between our car and the pond his cries turn to howls. the tears come and come and come. they dont’ seem to be stopping. this, coming from the kid who keeps it together. he, finally, in great relief, falls apart. my hands are on the steering wheel now and i want more than anything to fix this for him. if i could i would walk through those woods combing them for that perfect stick. if i could i would. but i know it’s no longer about the stick. it’s about the leaving. it’s about the being left. it’s about all sadness everywhere. and it’s big and heavy.

after thirty minutes he is still crying, genuine tears, big and juicy, they roll down his cheeks down into his chin. his shirt is wet from salty tears. in between sobs and swallows he asks, “how am i so sad? how can i stop crying?”

oh baby. i dont’ know. you just have to cry and cry to let your sadness out.

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I am face down in the chair. Completely at her mercy. I swear some massage therapists are telepathic. Their hands reach the stories in your muscles. They work them out even when they go most unwillingly. Everyone has a story, that much is true. They read yours with their hands.

I wonder how someone so petite can be so strong to pull these muscles into taffy, when they begin not loose but hinged tight with rusted bolts. My breath is forced from me and I let it go. Go away from me. This forcing. This working of muscles is better than therapy. It is being skinned alive in silence. It is awareness of breath. It is a practice in mindfulness. Tucked behind the floral department, I am face down in her presence. Groceries carts go past but they are invisible to me. My ears feel warm from the pressure release. They invite my own minds humming rather than the call for cleanup on aisle 10. Stifled tears come to life in the release of tight muscles. It is otherworldly and dizzying. This world I enter while face down before a stranger rocks me.

This therapist is pulling and spreading my wings. The very tendons that hold me together. Opening my chest and back like a rotisserie chicken ready for consumption. I am split open and somehow still welcome the pain. Drop by drop it leaves me and I am only the better for it. I am a complete package. An internal wreck on most days. I come equipped to hold tight and shove down. I cause myself my own pain. But here, face down in this chair, it is released. In silence and movement of hands and wrists and elbows.

Muscle by muscle I am freed. I walk out into the sun feeling like I can finally breath. Feeling like a baby that wants to curl up and sleep in a soft nest of Momma.