Sinful Sunday

I am alright (particularly when I am not)



I am not alright.

Everything around me is changing or worse than that staying the fucking same and it is freaking me out. My anchor has been wrenched from the bottom where it had been lodged for 25 years. Years when I have gazed with desire at far horizons and imagined myself sailing there with that ship and that crew and never, ever imagined I would have to journey there on my own.

I feel adrift. Literally rocked and pushed and pulled here and there by passing currents, tropical storms, shoals of fish caught in the hanging chain. I snag on rocks and wrecks as the waves crash onto my decks and I run from rudder to ships wheel to bilge pumps. I repel boarders and am sometimes over-run. There are pirates raiding my jewels and ship’s stores. Seabirds have built their own nests in my crows’ nest, my masts sway crookedly, their sails, creased and tattered can muster no longer to the wind’s call. The ships radio will only work when close to land and through the hiss and throb of interference I hear only the call and answer of other’s interactions.

I am distraught, sea-bedraggled, thirsty and hungry for home shores, different shores, no shore at all.

I spend many hours a day shaking with fear and drenched in tears, I fuck up at work, at a paultry job paying paultry wages that I would have never taken in a month of Sundays before the ground zero of this voyage. I prevaricate and procrastinate, dead set on not going back, so afraid of going forward. I get it wrong in relationships, alternately needy or distant, going too far too soon, or never far enough, and finding myself again on the otherside of another whirlpool that looks like the same one, over and over again.

I want to call for the Coast Guard but since I know that as soon as they bring me to the shore I will set sail again and I swallow that need. At night floating on my saltwater soaked sheets I wake, to view the moon through unfamiliar windows that look like mine, are mine, but so disorientated am I that I wonder aloud “where am I? How did I get here? Where are my people? Where is my us?”

For comfort I listen to encouraging webcasts, they say dream hard, reach high, don’t be afraid to fail, dare greatly, be vulnerable, rise strong, fuck hard, live long, be grateful, keep a journal, take control, let go and surrender, communicate, go no contact, and finally most helpfully, breathe, the universe loves you.

So I am alright, even when I am not alright and I most definitely am not alright. Nothing is or will ever be the same again. The gaps, my emptiness this tremendous loss are all of me too. I remain open that the universe might rush in and fill me with stars, transport my shaking and dilapidated ship with her good bones and beautiful lines to a safe harbour where recovery and refitting can take place.

I’m gonna get me some maps and take a course in sailing. Find some shipmates, evict the pirates, and build bird boxes for the birds. Restock my depleted stores and take on fresh supplies. All with the stardust the universe has left behind.


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