Yesterday I had a pain in the crook of my arm that felt exactly like an IV trickling in to my median cubital vein. A familiar but phantom ache that occurred as a skein of yarn sat at my feet, the very color my blood would take on after being exposed to ozone before being flooded back into my impatient arm. I never stopped being amazed at its brightness as I sat looking upward, watching my life change drip by drop- though it often didn’t feel that way.
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It got me thinking about what happens when we let air in… About poking holes in the soil with a broken arrow to let the roots breathe after an unlikely frost, praying for growth that comes fast in the form of electric pink leaves that make you believe in the possibility of your own resilience. About going for a walk in a marshy forest fog with the sun coming up, the scent of the sea and sap dripping from pine, opening your lungs for the laugh that comes out when you’re with people who wholly accept you, making it usual to be your unusual self.
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This is how I’ve been thinking about love. Its shocking brilliance, inability to blend to the background, the ache and its willingness to travel 100,000 miles of perfectly tangled blood vessels with the hope to heal us on its back.
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