It’s too improbable.
It’s logistically impossible.
It’s not recommended by experts.
It hasn’t come true in real life yet.
It doesn’t reflect any realistic possibility that I can see.
It doesn’t always feel good.
It makes people who know about it ask when it’s going to come true or go away.
It’s not realistic.
It is everything and nothing.
And it won’t go away. Inside me, it won’t go away. I have very little power to act, and yet when I try to tell myself that this isn’t me, this isn’t freedom, this isn’t imagination, this isn’t reality, I crumble.
I don’t know how to dream this into being. And I don’t know how to wish it away.
So I try to talk myself out of it. I do very very well, until I find myself crying my eyes out and there I am again, with the underlying – dare I say it? – truth.
The truth is that I have no idea what I’m doing, or why this is something that asks for such a delicate balance of acceptance and letting go.
And the biggest thing to let go, right now, this moment, is the belief that the tears mean nothing, that my feelings are poor guides, and that I have to see it before I can believe it.
Right now I’m blind, and sensing my way along the wall inch by inch, stopping frequently to rest. It’s a blindness not created by injury or lack of sight, but by sight not giving me what I need. And the bubble around me protects me from inner and outer voices telling me what to do.
I can’t act, or at least I can’t find a way to act, to bring it about. But I can, at least, acknowledge that it is true for me, inside. I can acknowledge that, right now, to try to dismiss that particular inner truth is to sheer off the deepest part of my soul. I can acknowledge that the tears are the surgery that brings the sheered-off part back.
And I can, maybe, talk myself out of questioning myself. For a bit. For this moment. For this breath. Maybe.