A Rock of One’s Own. (Frankfurt and Fairytales)

I’m in Frankfurt now. I’m realizing that having a blog requires a level of dedication to accessibility and openness that I don’t have right now. This trip is by far the most solitary experience I’ve ever had. My thoughts are my own. My feelings. My desires. My observations. My inclinations. I’m finding great solace in myself. In keeping a great deal to myself and to my writing. But this blog asks me to open the window and let some of this waft out. And I’m not really interested in that right now.

I’m interested in being lost. In people not  knowing where I am or what I’m doing, as much you don’t want that, Mom. I think it’s what I’ve always dreamt of.

The freedom I have is unrivaled. Today I am in Frankfurt, Germany and I don’t speak a lick of the language beyond ich liebe dich. Tomorrow or the day after I may go stay in South Tyrol. Or I may build a rocket to the high moon of Jupiter.

Once upon a time I believed in fairytales. Once upon a time I believed that true love came knocking and that, if I was lucky, it would carry me off to foreign lands and speak foreign words to me, and I would understand all of it. Once upon a time I believed that ‘meant to be’ carried weight, that lovers could never really become strangers, and hearts, if tended well, would never close.

Once upon a time I believed in us. Now I only believe in what ‘us’ has shown me. I believe I am on the path of my true heart, my true soul. I believe in my writing. I believe in my dreams. I believe in myself. And I’m beginning to believe true love has nothing to do with romance, and everything to do with stillness.

Once upon a time, I needed you. I needed a savior with loose auburn blonde curls and eyes the glow of afternoon forests. I needed someone to tell me I was good enough. Boy did I need that. Now, more than ever, I know I am beyond good enough; I know I could give one and a half shits if anyone else thought differently. Okay maybe more like three fourths of a shit.

Once upon a time, on the precipice of great transformation, when finally I had decided to voice my truth to the world (my first truth; there are many others in me), I wrote down a line, not so much a line as a command, not so much a command as a doctrine, not so much a doctrine as the Christmas Star, my true north, my guiding words, my ideal, my most sought after goal; I wrote–to a version of myself that knew little of what she was capable, or for that matter who the fuck she really was, a stranger still to herself, fraught with a yearning to know her True Name–I wrote:

Be your own rock.

And here I am, not a shoulder to lean on but my own, which is actually really difficult; have you tried leaning on your own shoulder? Necks aren’t meant to twist or bend that way. Eventually you have to sort of lift your arm up and nestle your bone into the crook of your ear. Then if you’re lucky you might hear the gentle sloshing of the sea, or the endless tango of atoms that make up your shirt sleeve. It’s quite a symphony.

Be your own rock.

Lay down your worries. Your heavy bags. Rub some muscle salve on your back. Rest your head on the still spot of your heart. Hear the wisdom of your feelings.

Put one leg in the air like a flamingo and squawk quietly to no one in particular. Burn three bouquets of white sage in the basement chapel of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Sing German hymnals in D minor to a cold slice of Dutch Apple Pie. Focus all your attention on the wiggling of your toes. Smile like your dimples are trying to get as far away from each other as possible. Laugh like there’s a bumblebee telling jokes in your esophagus. Place five lit lavender candles on the floor so that they resemble the constellation of Taurus. Recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards with a stroopwafel in your mouth. Eat baklava oozing a strange green syrup. Fix your hair up nice so your curls catch electromagnetic transmissions from space. Put your leg down. Sit in the rain and don’t think about getting wet. Just get wet. If the wind blows, follow it. Don’t push back. There’s no use in that.

There is a time in life to be wild, to be primordial, to be a hermit, a nomad, a Bedouin in the fashion of your farthest ancestors. It is a time only your heart knows. There is a time to cast off your gilded shackles. To know it’s only a matter of time, and money, before you realize time and money are illusions. There is a time for fairytales–and that time is childhood. If somewhere in the King’s Court of your spirit there is a princess awaiting rescue, then that means somewhere else, perhaps the Royal Forest of your soul, there is a knight burning also with unfulfilled desire. And if ever the two shall meet, which I hope for your sake they do, they shall realize they were never apart. They shall realize; nay you shall realize, you have been waiting for yourself. By the same rock where you left your truth.

And I told you I didn’t want to talk about this but damn it you’re a good listener. You must have a way of getting people to open up.

I’m in Frankfurt. Beside me, on surfaces of their own, two Chinese women are sleeping. They toss and turn a lot. Occasionally one of them coughs. I can hear them breathing. It’s that quiet. The host has gone to the gym. He has a kindness about him. As does the world. It’s not like the news tells you. Fear is a sham we eat like french fries. These humans, like most humans, know how to love. They know know how to share. I cross borders, but the borders do not cross me. Everywhere I go I am a woman without a country, a child of the stars, a happy wanderer. For I follow no one’s compass but my own. And the funny thing is, along the way I meet so many others doing the same, living for love, for joy. I think we should shut off our televisions and our smart phones and go get lost in a strange land. There are fantastic versions of ourselves waiting there. I have met them. And they breathe freedom like dragons breathe fire.

I’m in Frankfurt. And everywhere Germany is resting as God did. The market is closed. The coffee shop down the street. I’ve no sights or sounds to report beyond the huffs, heaves, sighs and snores of my temporary roommates. And now, quite because I feel like it, I’m going to take a shower, then sit out in the cold sun with my book. And if I’m lucky, God will be out there too, sitting in his frog pajamas, sipping his late morning tea.

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