I begin to write a letter. I stop and choose to write about here instead. It is past dusk. the glaring sun and dry heat of today in the desert has cooled, and I am sitting by the window, watching the sky turn periwinkle. The moth symphony has begun and soon the swirling bats will join the chorus. I can hear their echoes honing in the night now.
There is now a family of 7 living in a small nest tucked into the mala madre near front walkway, between the prayer flags and the wind chimes. The soft spring wind rocks them to sleep, I like to imagine. I have been selectively engaging my mind and body lately. It seems that this is the only way that I know how to reckon with the reality of each day.
I went out this morning and arrived at the store before it filled with quiet faces. The first thing I put into the cart was a bouquet of chamomile. It is hard to be lonely. People don’t often say this out loud, and I am realizing the parts of myself that are blooming. I don’t understand this enough, and yet it it the lesson that trails me throughout each year. It lingers, perhaps, because I have yet to fully learn it.
A friend tells me it is alright to be familiar with codependency in oneself. That we all carry a certain type. Maybe there is a goodness in realizing that we can sleep comfortably in the bed of our own colors. Even if it’s not the reality we had painted. Maybe that is what true self-respect could look like.