I walked a few miles today, a rout I haven’t taken in a year or more but one I grew up using. Gravel roads, out in the country where my parents live and where I used to live, too. I used to walk them with my dog, but he’s too old now. I brought him as far as the neighbor’s gate, where the honeysuckle is all the more fragrant just after being hammered by the afternoon’s rain. He ambled around the mailbox, snuffling flowers, but soon grew tired and I had to help him back to the house.
There were days when he’d run with me for miles out here; I miss those days.
The rest of the walk I took by myself. A year ago I might have been afraid to do that, to walk those isolated roads without at least the illusion of protection that the presence of a big dog brings. But now I miss the country so much that I can’t imagine coming to harm here. I grew up here. This is my place; these are my roads. I know where I am here; who I am. I know these acres; their woods and creeks, paths and shortcuts. I’ve climbed the trees and bled on them, too, swam in the ponds and fished the streams, ridden horses over the hills, burned dead fields and quenched the fires so new life could grow. Who would dare threaten me here?
No, I was not afraid to walk alone. Not here. Not now.
Once I was a lanky girl in cargo pants and long braided pigtails; thoughts mostly of horses and colors and birthdays and adventures, with only a vague dread in the back of my mind of the world’s evils. I come back now a voluptuous woman with tattooed skin and short-cropped hair, all too aware of how the misfortunes of chance can wear one down, making her vulnerable enough for society’s female-flesh-hungry claws to sink themselves in to the soft underbelly of her psyche. Guts stuffed back in and scars healed shut I walked that road again and remembered that I am back and that I am stronger for it all; stronger than the girl with the pigtails. But the scars twinged and I wondered.
I sat down in the middle of the road—you can do that here, on a dead-end gravel road in the country—and just stared across the landscape. Pasture, fences, cows, trees. Lush green grass, emerald canopies, streaks of rich browns and spatters of brightly-colored flowers. And space. So much open space. Nothing cramped, nothing crowded; no concrete or walls or hard edges looming up on either side of me or cars rushing by. Just the land existing, unimposing and serene but somehow peacefully demanding of attention to its natural beauty. I took it in and breathed the air and felt the breeze and experienced such a relief it almost hurt. I hadn’t realized before how much my eyes had been craving distance and space; something far-off to focus on. How much I needed openness in my peripheral, just some time with nothing close by at the corners; nothing closing in. And to breathe the fresh-rain wet-grass air while hearing nothing but the wind in the trees and the soft lowing of cattle instead of car sounds and city noises was like the release of a pressure valve in my head. I sat and I looked and I listed and begged for the song that was playing through my ear buds to be true: There’ll come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears…
Tonight I sleep with the old dog by my bed, in the guest room in my parents’ house. It’s strange to sleep in the guest room of the house you grew up in. I could have slept in my own room—or what used to be my room—but the old dog can’t make it up the stairs anymore and I would rather stay with him. I can hear a train far off in the distance, but other than that only crickets and frogs.
And tonight I have many thoughts.
Sometimes it feels good to love someone just because. Not because they treat you well all the time. But just because you want so badly to love them. And maybe that’s ok. Maybe love them anyway.
Sometimes I feel like I am beautiful not in spite of, but because of, my curves. My golden swells and valleys and this soft enveloping body that holds a long and captivating story, should you be interested to know it. Every line has a reason; every curve, every roll, every scar. Sometimes I feel like I am a beautiful narrative and how dare society tell me that I should be any different? How dare they tell me I should hide it.
But sometimes I feel like I am an ugly failure; the girl who has let herself go.
Sometimes I feel like the human race is a child still learning.
Sometimes I feel like I have some answers; sometimes I feel like I have none.
I know that my eyes are mostly green, if you look closely enough, even though from a distance they look brown.
I know that I live hard.
I know I love decadence; I know I thrive on scarcity. I know I swing between extremes.
I am no one thing. Or two, or three. Nothing is black-and-white. I am devil’s advocate; I am my shoulder angel.
Why don’t we talk about personal things? Why don’t we all write tell-all memoirs?
I feel like we’d all be less ashamed.
.
