Fog fascinates me. Thick, rolling, my overactive imagination conjuring witches and werewolves running through its white tapestry. I love its descent, how it magically climbs from forest and sky, and just lays itself upon the landscape like a lover, comfortable touching every curve and opening. Something about its supernatural quality speaks to my heart about trust, and longing, and understanding that the world can’t always be our interpretation of what we want it to be.
There is something to be said about trusting in mystery, and having faith when you can’t see around every corner. I once heard a shaman speak about what it felt like for him to awaken from the ‘dark night of the soul’, and he described it as running through a field with his eyes closed, arms splayed to his side, trusting that the way before him was open. I both love and fear walking in the fog, particularly at night, hearing noises echo and bounce, their origin hidden from my view. The allure to wander into its ivory cloak is powerful. It makes my pulse quicken, my senses become heightened, and I feel this otherworldly connection to a part of me that often lies in shelter, because as a survivor of childhood sexual trauma, the notion of unpredictably is so hard to swallow.
As I reflect on my journey as a woman, I realize that (and if you know me well, you hear this frequently) ambiguity is something that I have come to despise. In a world where culture still leans to whisper in our ears subservient, conflicting messages of how we should be, look, act, fuck, and live, I feel that it becomes of even greater importance that I understand decisiveness, can look it in the eye, and choose with dignity and ferocity. It has taken me 41 years to arrive in a space where I can feel, with a whole heart, that I am who I am, and if you don’t like my look, what I represent, how I live, or who I love, you can pretty much fuck off and go your own way, and we will both likely be happier for it.
Imagine that constant conflict, wanting to know and feel the stability of having a path that lies clear before me, and feeling the yearning of wanting to be enveloped in the unknown. It is so hard for my heart to let secrecy be a part of my life’s magic, because I was taught that secrets are for holding onto to moments that thrashed and scarred me from the inside out. It is so excruciating to trust in things that are obscure, when it such things that have damaged your soul the most. You’re left feeling like the internal compass of your instinct is forever broken, and that you are incapable of reading people for who they are: can you really sense good? Can you see the bad coming, when it was so obvious yet allusive before? Can you read another soul and see them for who they are, and trust your gut without constantly questioning that voice along the way?
It hits my relationships the hardest, both platonic and romantic. I don’t do well with friends who are fair weather, because I am staunchly loyal and lucid. And I struggle with indecisive lovers, because I am perspicuous, and the notion of balancing more than one person in an amorous association is out of the question for me. I don’t compartmentalize and parcel my emotions, spreading myself across multiple hearts. If I offer myself to you, it is everything I have to proffer, and I will share it without hesitation. I give my all, body and soul, and just don’t know how to offer less.
I don’t know how to be when things are equivocal, and the road ahead is covered in a thick, white gauze. I am captivated by its mystique, and terrified by what could happen along the way. Sometimes I question why I feel such devotion: what wouldn’t I give to descend into the fog, allowing my twisted intuition to guide me, allowing my heart to blindly lead the way? What wouldn’t I surrender to be a woman whose soul could be that free, who could afford the luxury of ambivalence? Yet, I recognize that my capacity for feeling is directly proportionate to what I devote. The more that I relinquish of myself to one person, the deeper I dive into the catacombs of my own passion. There is no superficiality. Each joy arrives wrapped in bliss, each ache is a knife that brings its own remembrance. I do not stretch myself in bit and pieces, parceled out slowly and carefully depending on the recipient. I could not bear to tear my soul apart to spare my heart. Anything except the totality of all I am feels counterfeit. The fog is merely water disguised as mist, and how it smolders in the light of my sun.
Reflections of a woman spawned in a cement cocoon...