I step from the warmth of the vehicle into the dampness of this winter’s day, recognizing this cruel morning, bitter sunshine, and tempered frost as a reflection of my weathered heart. A new phase have I entered into in my 34th year? A new dimension, dynamic, or decision? I feel trouble. I feel hurt. I feel concern. I stare at my faded reflection in the tinted glass doors. I face seriousness staring me coldly in the eye with limited emotion. Am I changing? Evolving? Perhaps I am dissolving into an irreversible torrent of a tempered mess. Is there any room inside of me for more weightiness? Do I have the strength to carry it? Do I really want it? What I want is to shout at my stoic face, scream at my peeling heart, and stomp on my fading frame. Wake up! The sirens in my head have sounded the alarms; they have revealed the danger, a slipping back, a small defeat, but an easy friend. The trouble, the hurt, and the concern have anchored me down before in their sorrowful waters. They once had me to be found reliably in their distant memory, a grave forest, a place I was forced to call my home. I can’t go back. I break the reflection staring back at me in the tinted door windows with the rocks and pebbles of all shapes and colors I can manage to clumsily collect in urgency. Is it finished? Not quite, for the broken pieces of glass shards remain faithful to me, embracing, and not letting go. There must be relief for me somewhere. There has to be.
Image Credit:Jean Francois Millet: Shepherdess seated in the forest