Told in Tandem with the Woodsman
He comes in like the tide. Steady and strong. Crashing upon my shore in a beautiful rhythm. The warmth of his love coats all my grains, soaking in before flowing back into the ocean of depth that is him.
With each return he carries a little of me back with him. My tiny crystals of love. I see them swirling in his waters, twisting and turning with his churning. Until there is a calm. And they settle, slowly creating a foundation.
Sand isn’t the best metaphor for a foundation. But sand turns to rock given enough time and pressure.
A rock of my being; she’s there. Not getting worn down by my tidal inner self, but standing strongly, quietly, boldly accepting my nature. And feeling how that nature of my being isn’t a harsh clash against her, but a warm glow of envelopment. Protective in ways, but mostly to feel that envelopment of her. With her. Because without both parts – the rock and the ocean, there would be no enveloping.
There would be two individual things.
Sand and rock aren’t metaphors; they’re representative of a current state of an individual self-reflective microcosm.
When it turns to the other way… the rock is an extension of everything, where the ocean is new. The rock – the earth – moving the ocean, changing it, having it become part of the whole self. The everything.
It is a helix, in the way a true, positive relationship must be. There is no single source of strength; each individual has strengths and vulnerabilities. In time, both get exposed and handled, and improved…
…or they don’t. And the relationship becomes a burden. This relationship is growth. Reliance in a positive way. Interlocking strength.
We take turns. Being each other’s rock. In the beginning he was mine. I thought him unflappable. And his love is. But he needs a rock of his own. I had a choice to make. Could I be his rock? Could I be his light? Could I stand at the edge of the dark pit he went down and wait for him? Could I resist the driving desire to go into the pit with him and try to pull him out? I knew that would only result in him retreating further into its depths, perhaps even fighting me, pushing me away. But I still ached to join him. But that’s not what he needed. He needed me to let him be. And so I stood at the edge of the pit. And tried to be light. Not a glaring light that one needs to shield one’s eyes from… but a flicker of brightness, reminding him of the way home. Whenever he was ready to return. And when that time came, there would be no judgement for his time in the pit. Only welcoming arms and a warm hand to help him climb out.
As wisdom and age grow the inner self, I understand that the greatest gift that can be given to another is not love, it is patience and grace. They are expressions of love that show the true feeling inside.
Too often, we word love as the feeling we have for another. But that love – that feeling – grows from the person we have in our vision.
Yet our tendency when we see something that isn’t right with our other, we want to help – to fix. Not to give them the grace of patience to seek their answer or solution.
When we can have that grace, that patience, that once the hurdle is passed, they will be the one they love.
What seems trivial to one may be serious to another. What is cathartic through a lens may be damaging when seen through another. Black is sometimes white; extroverts are sometimes introverts; quiet is sometimes a loud shout.
She was there. She saw; she gave me that grace and patience to be me. To trust that I would and will turn to her in need; that I have that faith in her. That my mistakes and troubles are mine, but standing with me is what I needed.
It was a different side to the same coin from not long ago. That fear of acceptance – of my acceptance – needed to be handled in her own way. Not through blind faith in my words, but through her own way of showing and being of herself for herself.
And so I was. Giving her that length she needed and learn to understand that I would not lash out due to that length she stretched between us.
I fight for him. Not with swords or guns. My weapon is not so bold as that. It’s bubbles of joy that I don’t allow to dissipate. It’s light conversation. It’s keeping him company. It’s resisting the driving urge to fix it. It’s smiling in the face of a terrible dragon who is attempting to devour my love. This dragon of self blame. It’s grinning at the dragon, wanting to slash at it, but refusing. Not knowing how long the dragon will stay. Not know how deep the dragon will take him. Those are my weapons. And this time, and the time after and the time after that, if I am patient long enough, they will prevail.