May I Come In? (Neither Lion nor Wolf, revisited)

The storyteller spoke to the girl in stories--metaphors. Lessons she wanted the girl to learn, from her own life and from the lives of others. She shared her wisdom, the wisdom of a life lived widely, the wisdom passed down for generations, all lilting, lulling the girl with her storyteller's voice.

She spoke of wolves, though she was, herself, a lion. How could a lion know the plight or pleasure of a wolf? The girl longed to be a wolf, would forsake all she possessed, or may possess, in this world and all others, to have a pack to call her their own, bound by blood and the savage solemnity of the slaughter. Loyalty of like calling to like.

She was no wolf, nor was ever meant to be. She was no more wolf than the storyteller. Nor was the girl like her. It was not in her heart or her soul to be leonine. She dreamt of dragons and the lonely freedom of flight. The awe of flame and ash. Also did she dream of fleet-footed felines, the ferocious hunters, sovereigns among beasts, who were her namesake. But she was dedicated to a god she did not know, had never known--could never know. How then could she claim her place as his lioness?

No, a lion she was not; her name was a mistake--a lie--a false face. She knew she must doff it to find her true self: being neither lion nor wolf, having neither pride nor pack. Where then was she to find her place? She embraced the madness, cloaked herself in its name, submitted to its siren song, and set off, armed this time, no longer the questing child. All she had left was a single thread of hope, holding above her head Damocles' own sword, that she would find where she fitted, she she would slide into place, the piece, whose coming would be celebrated, not as a prodigal return, but as a homecoming foretold and finally fulfilled.

Neither wolf nor lion

She spoke to the young one
in stories--metaphors.
Lessons she wanted the child
to learn, from her own life
and from the lives
of others. Wisdom shared
in the lull of her storytelling voice.

She spoke to the child of wolves,
but she was herself--a lion.
The child wanted nothing more
than to be a wolf, to have
a pack that called her their own,
bound by blood and the solemnity
of the kill, and by the loyalty
of sameness.

The child was no wolf, nor ever would be,
no more than the storyteller. She dreamt
of dragons, and the lonely freedom
of flight. She dreamt
of fleet-footed felines,
ferocious hunters that were her
namesake. But she was dedicated
to a god she did not know, had never
known. How, then, could she be
a lion?

No, a lion she was not. Her name
was a lie, a false face.
She knew she must doff it
and search for her true self:
being neither lion nor wolf,
having neither pride nor pack.
All she wanted was to find
where she fitted, where she slid
into place, the missing piece
whose return would be celebrated
To come home, not again, but finally.

No one told me...

The lessons I have learnt in my life have been myriad; some have been simple, others have been profound, some difficult, and others simply requiring a nod of the head before moving on. The hardest lessons were always the ones I was not prepared to learn. The ones that came without warning. Sailors, they say, keep close watch on the sky because she will tell them everything they need to know to keep themselves afloat. A story I read a long time ago says that the skies and the winds over land are inconsistent, shifting, and do not give us the warning that sailors have learnt, and passed on through the centuries.

Sometimes I feel like my gatekeeping tasks have me locked in a tower, watching the sky, but I don't know what I'm looking for. Is that cloud formation dark because the sun is going down? Is it shifting to the east or to the south? I get distracted by the lightning and the pageantry of the moon, and by the time the storm hits, I haven't rung any bells, I haven't sounded the alarms, and the air raid sirens are silent. What good am I, as a gatekeeper, then? What good am I as a sentinel? My watch began without instruction, and continues without guidance. I do not have the knowledge and skills passed down from generations past. I have not the preparation or the instincts to know when to raise the alarm. How, then, am I to succeed?

Strangers behind a train

It was another long day at the office. How many mornings had she gotten in before it was light outside? She could not remember. Life had turned into a cycle of getting up obscenely early, working longer and longer shifts, and getting home, just to eat something before she crashed, only to repeat the process the next day and the next and the next...

She was glad to get out early. The weather that morning had been indeterminate, but she braved it anyway, wearing only a hoodie on a day that it may rain (is that not every day in Seattle, after all?). Of course it rained. A lot. It was coming down lightly as she started out from the office toward the bus stop, but by the time she reached the train tracks it was coming down pretty hard. Within a few minutes her shoulders and head were completely wet. She doffed her hood and let the rain fall on her head, reveling in the rare heavy rain that her city gave to her.

The barriers dropped as she approached the tracks from the west, and she looked down to see if the oncoming train were visible. She sighed as she saw the freight engines in the distance to the south. She counted three engines--a long train, then. The train came in slowly from the south, blowing its whistle loud and long as it approached the street crossing. Then something odd happened. The train started to slow when it was about halfway across the roadway, and came to a complete stop in the middle of the tracks that cut through the road. By now a small crowd of commuters had gathered behind the stopped train.

She glanced around. There was an assortment of persons waiting, in various states of agitation, staring at the stopped train. After a minute or two, one of the men let out a grunt of frustration and started across the train tracks. He climbed over the links that connected two of the boxcars and continued down the street. A couple of younger 20-somethings, obviously coworkers based on the snatches of conversation she heard from them, speculated whether they should do the same. The girl pointed out she would have trouble climbing over the connectors in the shoes she was wearing, and the guy conceded and they continued to mill around the barrier's flashing lights.

As the crowd waited, a taller figure approached the train tracks from the west. She watched the figure approach with mild curiosity. Most of the people waiting for the stopped train were standing stoicly in the rain, not looking at one another, waiting in the Seattle standard-issue awkward silence. Something about the fae creature pacing closer toward the stopped train made her think this one would not wait so passively as the rest. The stranger took in the sight as they got the spot where most of the persons stood and a mad Cheshire Cat grin split their face.

'I'm sorry,' they said. 'This is probably my fault, for all the trains I tagged in the past.'

She looked up at the sound of the voice, a pitch and timbre that struck her as both foreign and familiar. Their eyes met and she grinned back at the stranger at the crossroads.

'I knew there had to be a reason for this,' she said.

A few people looked at the two of them as they laughed, and a train whistle blew in the distance. She looked north and saw the lights of a second train. The train heading south approached slowly, and she counted the engines on this one. Only two engines this time. A shorter train.

She was soaked through. Her hair was dripping down the back of her neck and her feet felt damp in her Chucks. The stranger who apologised continued to smile at her, and she could not help but smile back. The Cheshire Cat smile was so genuine and infectious.

Well, now, this is going to be interesting, she thought.

Logic in the Passenger Seat

There are moments in my life where I have stood on the brink and looked over the edge and ...hesitated. Opportunities swirled around my ankles like an outgoing tide. They ebb and flow, and of course, new opportunities will come in again; that is the nature of the universe. As I watch them slip away, finite and unique, I sigh, assure myself it was for the best, I need to make sound, logical decisions.

Last night was not one of those moments. Last night, I came up to the precipitous perch on the edge of new experience, and instead of hesitating, over-thinking, and fretting away the minutes, hours, days, until the decision was made for me, I jumped in with both feet. There are a few moments in my life when I can pinpoint this precise position, and I want to keep pushing myself past the point of comfort and security.

Feel your way through things. My therapist keeps giving me this advice. I'm a thinker. A ponderer, a puzzler, a real and rigorous ruminator. (Or would it be ruminatrix? I think I like that one better.) Last night, I leapt. I tumbled headlong into sensation, not sense.

I knew from the moment I met her, there was something different about the fae creature I saw last night. I do not know what it was, specifically, in that moment when our eyes first met and our grins reflected one another. The only two talking caught behind a freight train in the rain. A pleasant conversation, a gleam of something more interesting, and it seemed to be nothing more than an incidental encounter. A single-serving friend. (She kept using that phrase last night. This morning. Whatever. I had to look it up because I couldn't remember the reference. (In my defence the only time I've seen Fight Club was back in high school and most of the film was spent wrestling RJ and Scottie for the best spot on the couch.)) Much to my surprise (which the hyperlogical side of me wants to qualify and quantify, to weigh and winnow through, to understand the WHY) despite our not exchanging good contact information (I had a business card with a website and generic email address to go on; she only had a name, and not a given name), she found me and decided that we would be friends.

I tend to look at myself and ask, Why me? Why do remarkable, curious, awesome people want to know me? Why did my wife text me when I missed my first practice? How can a line of poetry and a quote from a tv programme cement a relationship? What is it about me that made her seek me out? I told this one I felt so commonplace next to her. I heard her stories and felt, this is a person I would create in fiction, not a person whom I would meet, flesh and bone, blood and soul, on the street, and hear their stories. I don't understand what it is about me that people seek me out, it is strange, novel, foreign, and daunting, but last night I realised I should not worry about it so much. I should just accept it, graciously.

It turns out, it's hard not be graciously accepting of people insisting they want to be around you when one is wrapped up in the most magnificent cuddle puddle imaginable. With people who accepted me as a stranger in their midst, who were ostensibly all strangers to me, where despite being in a place I'd never been with persons I never met, I felt completely, totally, beautifully safe. And I trusted just a little bit. It's been so long since I did that.

I made my choice. I took that chance. I jumped off the ledge. I plunged into feeling. And it was wonderful.