Monday, June 28, 2010
The Pain of Wanting
Wanting arrived on my doorstep. A brightly colored child dressed in too-too and ballet slippers. A bubble blowing, twirling little girl who ran through my house and heart without stopping.
"And who are you?" I asked, unsure if I should let this child be mine.
"Wanting," she said and with another twirl she was gone.
Up stairs and downs stairs she ran, taking my hand the next time she passed by me and pulling me out into the day. Together we skipped out and through my herb garden, giggling as if the sun would always shine. Collapsing, we let the grass tickle our backs and told each other stories. Tales of all the things I have dreamed since I were her age. We spent the entire day making daisy chains and pulling leaves off clover until she remarked that the afternoon sky looked like pink lemonade with cotton candy clouds. And then she left. Or went to sleep. Or took up residence in a room of my heart until the next moment I had to give my time to Wanting and all her dreams.
The following day Wanting returned. Or woke up. Or led me back to my heart. This time she was dressed as an Indian, complete with paper head dress and peacock feathers. Her feet were bare and her hair was as wild as the wind that picked up as soon as I opened the door of my heart to her. Her feet pounded the stairs of my house, her grin peeking out from around corners. Her squealing echoed through the halls.
"I gotcha!" she yelled after every plastic arrow shot from her bow. Laughing, I found my own plastic bow and together we raced after each other until we could race no more. On the sweet summer grass we built a tee pee and laid under the sheets pitched between the kitchen chairs speaking about dreams. All my hearts desires. For Wanting knew them all.
For untold glorious weeks she arrived at my door when ever my heart had time to dream. When ever I had time to once again be that child. To race with the winds and make shapes out of clouds. To finger paints rainbows and bake mud pies.
I took the hand of Wanting and kissed her sweet cheek. She and I, we knew some things. Dreams were simple. Dreams were delicious. Dreams smelt like night jasmine and the summer earth after the rain.
And then it happened.
Wanting fell. We were walking along an unfamiliar path. But the sky was golden and the willows along the stream seem to call our names. Further and further we walked. Everything in us said this was the way we wanted to go.
I pointed to a flock of birds over head. I should have been watching her. I should have seen it coming. But I didn't. Her foot must have caught on something. Reality, I suspect. He can be a bastard. He is certainly no respecter of little girls, nor is he precious about dreams.
One moment we were waling together, Wanting and I, hand in hand. And the next she was gone. I raced madly up and down the stream's edge calling her name. But she didn't surface...
Did she even fall down here?
I am still calling.
I have hope.
Wanting is a resilient little thing. And if she fell into the water I know she can swim.
But to not have her with me, to not breath the scent of summer grass or be able to share an afternoon full of pink lemonade skies, hurts. It just hurt. Wanting hurts. And I hurt. And that my dear friends is the stark reality of dreams. Wanting is beautiful. Until she meets reality. And then she can be difficult to find.
So I call out. I search. And I wait. Until Wanting, is found, returns or leads me back to my heart, I will be here.
What about you? Have you met Wanting? Do you walk together? Or are you calling her name?