"Impeccable Uncertainty"


by Monica Petter



Sometimes I forget. Forget I can't fly. It seems so easy at times to do, until I attempt it. Then, I realize that I am human, humble, with feelings all my own. Feelings I own, good or bad. At times, I get lost in my own haze of confusion, self-doubt. I lose my worth until you come back. My only guarantee in life - uncertainty.

Here you are. I missed you. Your prickly welcome is uncomfortable and endearing to me in strange, hypnotic ways. You make me remember that I thought I could fly. You make me see beyond my own need. You are terribly humbling, but you are a mirror. I am human with flaws and hang-ups. Suddenly, you make the warm winds of a storm feel invited, invigorating. You challenge the normalcy, the emotional murky waters that sit stagnant with fear. You turn that fear into action. You make me live, not hide from the world. You give me reasons, rational reasons that I rationalize to the bone, but throw out the window when you walk in. Again. Here you are. Scaring me, pushing me, testing me. I always loved a good fight.

You've been gone so long, I have fallen back into my ruts - the doormat, convenient, dependable. Muddy shoe prints all over me, scuff marks I let befall my path. I need you to send me crawling under a shady tree on a windy spring day. The smell of life turning over, reborn, like the delicate soul my fragile spirit cradles now. I admit it. I am weak and in need of inspiration. I've lived too much in the real world of the trivial detail, the mundane shuffle of money, and the drive to please as my soul takes a back seat.

You call me to really feel. To dig down in my chest and let my fingers caress the heart pounding slowly, surely - tweak it for the ride. It will be a ride, you and me. It's always a dance, a tango. You lead, I follow - you sting, I persevere. You make me take note of the wind, the rain, the blueness of the ocean, people hurting, hiding. I recognize the little things that make life one big story. The story of my life you help me create.

We all live in our own reality. We create our own monsters, our own heroes. We paint our own scenery, color our own emotional depths with shades of azure, violet, crimson. We pencil the smile or frowns on our faces. We find love as thunderous as trains or planes, yet delicate as dewdrops or teardrops - falling quickly, silently. We hurt others with our own convictions slicing them with our sharp tongues - we stoke confidence with our buttery, sweet compassion given to any hungry, starving soul. Choices. We have choices. We are never the victim in our own lives unless we allow ourselves to be. Always be impeccable in the world you create - it's your world, your story. Steer clear of yourself at times and find that shade tree.

So, you're back. I hate to admit it, but I missed you. My hands aren't working well today, my stamina is a bit low on fuel, but my soul is electric. Such is disease, the oxymoron. If we could all have a friend like you, the world wouldn't seem so overwhelming. It would be simple. It would be real. To hell with platitudes and latitudes and these tight shoes. I think I'll trade them for wings today. I know I can fly.


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