Lying with my back on the ground, to my left and right, the trees tower so tall. Like redwoods. And the cacophonous wilderness chatter chatter chatter curious, jeering, encouraging, judging.. Or are they sounds echoing in my head.
Like Enid Blyton's Enchanted Forest ..they go Wisha wisha wisha..wish a..?
Wish that I am enough, with my strengths and mostly failings. Yet it appears being human is the one thing that we have to guard ourselves against.
Wish that I can accept things that I can't change. That burying the dead is not so hard.
Wish that courage can be found in facing an uncertain future.
Wish that when the sky fell, the moon and stars didn't all fall in together and bury me further into the dirt.
Wisha wisha wisha
So now that I have to wriggle my toes and climb up again, I don't know which way anymore. All lessons learnt only make me suspicious of the world and people and my own choices.
This week I awoke with a distinct fear that I may not live. It is one thing to contemplate ending one's life, which admittedly is a popular pastime with the morbidly depressed, but to actually face with its actual possibility, it's a different kettle of mackerel altogether. To die on one's terms is presumably preferable to having it imposed on one, which would leave most people quite annoyed and indignant no doubt.
A fear then sets in. Not so much of the end itself but all the things left undone. Suspending Belief for just a second, contemplate the chance that there is no rebirth, kingdom of god, spirit world - assuming just for a little while that THIS is all you have, the fear and regret that time has been squandered in procrastination can be quite moving. Of course I can't speak for everyone. Some are very happy with their mark in life - be it beautiful offspring or sponsoring clean water in Rwanda, legacies and life experiences make time on earth worth something.
My past 10 years have been mostly about existing. Easing myself in a work-life environment where I thought would eventually lead to a house with a picket fence, kids terrorising the dog in the yard, friends over for currypuffs, annual holidays to play snow or ride elephants, you know, a domestic goddess, the hostess with the mostest. No surprises that I am not living like a Weasley but what on earth made me think that I deserve a story book ending. Fairy tales are cruel things to inflict upon the young and not so young.
I thought that by now I would have everything figured out. I just expected things to fall into place magically as they should. The loud buzzer and red lights flash WRONG and just like vaudeville - a long curved cane yanked me off my feet and deposited me right where I am now.
Its humbling to start back from ground zero again when the redwoods loom above. But maybe its my second chance to start again. Alone and afraid, this time a little wiser of the world.