Minimal

Kisa took this picture of serenity while I wrestled with chaos. I was thinking about something my sister said and was arguing with her (vehemently) in my head. She wasn’t there but I could hear her voice. She has tried to direct my direction before. In the past I’ve come close to giving in, letting her guide me where she thinks I should be going. This time it’s a directive as simple as “you should say something” but the fear in my heart gives it complexity and chaos. So, while a sailboat sails silently over the seas I wrestled this stupid struggle to the ground. I felt as though I was winning… but before I could pin it and really claim victory the triumph was lost in self doubt. More confusion. Maybe she is right. That thought alone keeps me questioning. You should say something. So I do. Later, I do.

Here’s the thing: Confessions are like closets. You never know what’s behind their doors or how deep they’ll go. To say something is to open that door and wait for whatever comes out. Or what wants to enter in. I made a start by admitting to something small, miniscule. I opened a tiny confessional window instead of that big ugly door. Untrusting, I was testing the temperature of acceptance, if you will. I had a right to be worried. The reception was chilly. Borderline bitter cold. I offered up an open window and it was slammed shut with “oh…that’s not what happened!” An exclamation of denial in a condescending tone to something in my life, lived by me, myself & moi. You’re telling me my confession is clueless. You’re telling me my memory is all wrong despite my living it. You can’t get much colder than that. If I could raise the dead and make them speak I would prop her up and make her tell you how it happened. Someone to back me up. Someone to say that’s how it happened. I need a witness.

In the end I wrestled chaos and confusion. I went to the depths of anger and came back resigned. As a result of the window I will never open the door. I will never share the secrets. It’s bad enough I know.