A Bit of Prose - 9/6/07
It’s just all these damn waves. At first they’re refreshing. You walk through the water like you do in your dreams, slow and encumbered. The tiny, odd, waves splash your shins in hopes of making some small impression. This, to me, is like the beginning of one’s life in love. They may be twelve, sixteen, twenty, but it’s still the beginning. The waves are small and harmless, and what little annoyance they present is overpowered by the simple joy of entering this point in life. Where there had been no feeling before, there was now the feeling of loss. Where there had been no heart before, there was now heartbreak. A sense of cool washes over the part of you that is now engulfed in emotion, I can feel now! And even though the walk is slow and the transition on the dry parts of skin is somewhat shocking and painful, the waves are still refreshing.
I find that when the water reaches the waist and creeps up toward the chest - lapping as it does - there is the most awkward discomfort. A chill reaches your heart at this point and whispers urgently, “you’re not getting out now, not for a while. It will be too cold to be out of the water now.” That is the moment just before the bigger waves start coming. Someone might dodge a few to spare their face and hair for the time being, but, sooner or later, they are going to take the plunge. One giant wave will look you in the eye and tell them what you have always wanted to hear. I will be refreshing. I will be what you expected. I will make this long walk and the awkward parts in between all worth the while. And you will believe the foamy, watery mass headed toward you, an you will not jump and catch the break in your midsection, stinging. You will dive straight in, and it will be glorious. The water sinks through your hair, in and around every strand and onto your scalp, onto your sun-burnt face and the rest of your neck, and you feel completely at ease. Completely satisfied here, under the wave and its promise. But you tumble about for a bit and you can’t breathe under here. You can’t function like you would normally function. You can’t walk while you are floating, and the water is becoming shallow again. The wave is headed toward the shore, toward the rest of your past.
You emerge unlike yourself, your hair matted down to your head, your eyes stinging. The heartbreak doesn’t bite like it used to. Where there was a joy in newly knowing how to feel, there is now a throbbing normalcy. The only thing left to do is go back under, but your big wave is gone. There are medium sized waves that serve some purpose, but soon enough, you are ready to get out of the water. Your legs are tired and your hands are wrinkly and you feel older and your heart is too calloused for its own good. You turn to walk back toward the shore, but the rough, medium-to-large waves hunt you down on your way back. They crash on your neck, your shoulder blades, the middle of your back. All begging for attention, all stinging and reckless when you turn to meet them.
Finally, after that long, arduous walk, you reach the shore again and you lay for a while on the sand in the sun, drying, wondering why the water ever seemed so appealing in the first place. After a while, though, the waves will call again. The bad memories will have dried into or off of your skin and you will long for the cool again. You will venture, hair still matted to your skull, to find the spark of something you thought you left behind you a long time ago. You feel the cool shallow water at your heels and you feel that same joy and excitement at the idea of love and you feel wise enough now to appreciate it. You could stay in this water forever now that you understand it. It is fulfilling and it is exciting. You know the parts of this ocean that make you happy and the parts that are the most challenging, and you would never have known any of it had you not taken the plunge in the first place.
I hope.
I find that when the water reaches the waist and creeps up toward the chest - lapping as it does - there is the most awkward discomfort. A chill reaches your heart at this point and whispers urgently, “you’re not getting out now, not for a while. It will be too cold to be out of the water now.” That is the moment just before the bigger waves start coming. Someone might dodge a few to spare their face and hair for the time being, but, sooner or later, they are going to take the plunge. One giant wave will look you in the eye and tell them what you have always wanted to hear. I will be refreshing. I will be what you expected. I will make this long walk and the awkward parts in between all worth the while. And you will believe the foamy, watery mass headed toward you, an you will not jump and catch the break in your midsection, stinging. You will dive straight in, and it will be glorious. The water sinks through your hair, in and around every strand and onto your scalp, onto your sun-burnt face and the rest of your neck, and you feel completely at ease. Completely satisfied here, under the wave and its promise. But you tumble about for a bit and you can’t breathe under here. You can’t function like you would normally function. You can’t walk while you are floating, and the water is becoming shallow again. The wave is headed toward the shore, toward the rest of your past.
You emerge unlike yourself, your hair matted down to your head, your eyes stinging. The heartbreak doesn’t bite like it used to. Where there was a joy in newly knowing how to feel, there is now a throbbing normalcy. The only thing left to do is go back under, but your big wave is gone. There are medium sized waves that serve some purpose, but soon enough, you are ready to get out of the water. Your legs are tired and your hands are wrinkly and you feel older and your heart is too calloused for its own good. You turn to walk back toward the shore, but the rough, medium-to-large waves hunt you down on your way back. They crash on your neck, your shoulder blades, the middle of your back. All begging for attention, all stinging and reckless when you turn to meet them.
Finally, after that long, arduous walk, you reach the shore again and you lay for a while on the sand in the sun, drying, wondering why the water ever seemed so appealing in the first place. After a while, though, the waves will call again. The bad memories will have dried into or off of your skin and you will long for the cool again. You will venture, hair still matted to your skull, to find the spark of something you thought you left behind you a long time ago. You feel the cool shallow water at your heels and you feel that same joy and excitement at the idea of love and you feel wise enough now to appreciate it. You could stay in this water forever now that you understand it. It is fulfilling and it is exciting. You know the parts of this ocean that make you happy and the parts that are the most challenging, and you would never have known any of it had you not taken the plunge in the first place.
I hope.