In my new age, while I cannot claim many years, I am cyclically aware of the duality and transitory nature of all things.

When I can forget it, I wallow in that ignorance, because to look too long at it is to wonder when the pendulum will swing back, and whether I’ll be able to handle the change.

(I must. I can. I will.)

In a search for health I have discovered control, and with success comes joy cradled in terror: that I will make a complete fucking mess of this if anything falls out of balance. I create a new space, another and another, a more sober space, a healthier space, a calmer space, a more prepared space, I can, I will, I am in control, I’m good at this, this is easy, I am worthy…

I am fallible.

There is no infinite climb, no ultimate understanding. It’s a stopping and starting, a clumsy-beautiful lurch forward with scraped knees and bruised ego and hope cobbled together by loving words and chance.  But the steps I can land consecutively feel so good. I think, “I’ve got this now.”

She’s got herself together. Her ducks in a row. What a well-adjusted young lady

          Who spirals into manic benders spent gripping tight to blankets and partner and the fervent hope that this one can be rode out without the safety net of substances.

          Who goes months at a time unable to put forth any more. All I have, and it’s not very much.

          Who avoids truths to spare feelings.

Who is blessed with knowledge and support and still unable to use every gift, meet every eye.

          Who knows the exact texture of the ceiling, the tempo of the blinking of the clock, the cadence of the barking of the neighbor’s dog; watch the numbers tick by, get up, lie back down, read awhile, get back up, change seats, read a book, drink some tea, back in bed, and still, still

Was it enough? Was I too kind, too cruel? Should I have said this instead? Does she deserve better? Do they? Does it matter? Who’s responsibility is… How far should I… When will it… I’m not sure. I’m happy. I’m scared. It’s enough. There’s more.

To remain in the light.

To look at, and then truly see, as much as I can; good and bad are not all that far removed, after all, and binaries are just hues and shades dancing along Mobius strip. To acknowledge my fear without tainting my joy. To acknowledge my weakness in a way that celebrates my strength. To embrace discomfort. To forgive, myself mostly, for being human, for not knowing, for having to relearn and recalibrate and rebalance over and over and over and-

To rejoice and not cower in the knowledge that I am reborn, reintroduced, seeing and loving anew and different every second of every day for the depth and breadth of my life. That change is inevitable, but life is enduring, relentless, it survives all by becoming more than it was before.

So too shall I.