Her World

She used to talk about leaving. Escaping into the depths of the redwoods and living in nature totally free. That was her young dream but as she aged she found herself being pulled north towards Oregon although her ultimate nirvana would be to land right in the middle of NowhereTown, Alaska living off the land in a small hut she built with a view that would make any person confined to the city jealous of.

She wanted to live simply. Grow food, hunt, live from the land and off the grid. She was a skilled butcher by trade although the sight of blood, death for easy consumption and waste eventually bothered her into a life change. Her disgust for corporate greed grew and their need to cut corners for profit, relaxed safety measures and the feeling that society was drifting away from a truth she felt she understood made it so that eventually the trade repulsed her, butchering animals for others consumption repulsed her, and she couldn’t do it any longer.

But hunting in the wilderness she felt was different. It took skill. Had meaning. The death of all of the animals had a meaning. It was an example of the true essence of life and death and she respected that. Nothing was done in vain and her hard work every day would be rewarded with the greatest gift of all, another day of freedom.

And she could work, harder than most people, and physically harder than most adult men. But the strength was sort of an illusion, covering up the scars on her tender heart from her teen years spent on the streets, making her appear that she could handle emotionally more than she knew she could. No one ever doubted her physical strength though, ever.

After the death of her father at 13, she broke from society and wandered alone accompanied by others filled with rage and entitlement and she figured she wouldn’t live through it, every day taking what she wanted from anyone she wanted, fearing nothing more than when the time came for her life to be taken from her. She expected it and even felt she deserved it, a penance for the pain she inflicted, for the pain inflicted upon her. She knew the end would come and she would fight like one of those trapped animals getting ready to be butchered, until the very end, until there was no way to escape. Looking backwards I think she thought it would have been poetic justice had it happened that way.

That idea to fight kept her alive when most of the others she ran around with didn’t but the scars it left were deep and had a daily impact on her adult life. When she came out of that haze in her early 20’s, being a butcher seemed natural to her, perhaps it was the comfort in her fear she confronted that drew her to it. But as she grew older and life changed, she changed too. Too tender to kill more than weeds, even letting house spiders go outside, she wanted to change. A strange sort of peace settled in her and now she wanted to tend her garden and grow tomatoes, live in nature, away from the pain of the world and just enjoy the fruits of a hard days labor.

I always thought she was crazy with this dream of hers. Who wants to live in boon fuck nowhere, out in the wilderness with no running water, snow packed so high in winter you can barely get around. No hospital nearby, and aside from those who may live near you or partner with you to tackle winter, you were otherwise alone. A life away from paychecks and appointments, grocery stores and neighbors, hot water and driving… a life away from convenience. How inconvenient is that?!

And then WHAM! I was broadsided, hit so hard by life it not only knocked the wind out of me, it knocked me down, sat on my chest and pummeled me with blows to my head and heart, so many so that it was only because of instinct that I threw my arms up to shield my face as my last line of defense. But my defense was an illusion and it did nothing to help. The fight back actually made it worse for me and eventually my strength and energy faded, I let my arms fall to my sides in defeat, fully exposed now to the beating that life was inflicting on me, helpless. I barely survived this beating and while my bruises healed, the scars internal are my permanent reminder of the attack, and I will carry them with me always.

Sometimes I catch myself just gazing out of the window at the clouds going by, or watching leaves wave on branches, or I just close my eyes and listen to the stream in the neighbor’s yard and the beautiful sound that the water peacefully makes and I understand now why she wanted to live in the center of nature, away from the “civilized“ rest of the world. When you have done things, had things done to you, when you lose the good fight and your world shatters into a thousand pieces resulting in an unrecognizable version of yourself, where all of your weaknesses are exposed, you are embarrassed, used, spit out. You are weak, so very weak living in your own personal hell, every day just fighting to see good, see life and to value it and not let the anger eat away all of its goodness like a cancer. When you survive this, the beauty of the world presents itself in a way more beautiful than you ever knew possible, in a way that words seem to fail you in describing, a truth so pure you can only embrace it, with simplicity and love, peace and forgiveness.

This would have been her heaven had she survived long enough to experience it and I wish now more than ever I could tell her that I finally understand her beautiful world; its scars, its pitfalls, its death and rebirth, the effort, the peeling away of layers, the exposure, the truth, the love and the quiet. Its simplicity and complexity, the desire to be alone but never truly, the fire from inside that you hide from, the fire that burns on and carries you through. The embarrassment, the guilt, the fear, the anxiety, being broken. Fixing yourself, letting others help fix you, the journey with its setbacks, the darkness and the light. How one persons belief in you can be enough to give you hope, how we all need saving. We are all running from something, to somewhere, away from ourselves, towards one another.

I wish I could say these things to her but somewhere inside of me, I feel like she knows it already. By surviving her death, she gave me this awareness as a gift and although I feel alone in her absence I feel now more like twins than the day we were born together all those years ago.