I find myself not wanting to write about her. Partially because she so quickly became significant to me, but mostly because these words will be read flat and she deserves only fullness.
She stood in front of me, book ended by red but wrapped in cooler swirls of blue. I could feel us each rooting ourselves, ready for battle should it present itself. It was a skill I saw in her which immediately spoke of kinship. Her eyes were bluegreenbrown, the color unimportant but the intention, knowledge and ferocity was clear.
I asked her name, stretched out my hand and offered her the final bites of my trail mix. That is my way. To sweet my way through struggle, sometimes. It is a protection but it is also a value system. A belief that sweetness and earnest generosity is the key to any movement, any building, worth living in.
Our hands touched, our feet shifted, our gazes met firmly. And we locked there. She 60 something, I 27, both showing our strength and sincerity. And then she said, ‘I’ll probably cry through this whole damn thing’. And my hand snapped to my chest as I said, ‘Me too’. And it was not just words, it was a promise, a commitment. To her and to myself.
‘Really?’, she said. I nodded slowly. And in the same moment our arms opened to one another and pulled into the space between. We stood tears flowing, something broken, some illusion. And I felt the power of remaining open. Felt all it can bring to us. There was relief and connection but there was still not ease. And for the first time, that was ok.
We were asked to return to the meadow for conversation and we returned with arms wrapped round one another to begin this talking together.
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