What a dance.

In the last 2 weeks, I have traveled roughly 1100 miles. About 100 of them have been by train. About 20 by foot. The rest in the Bronco.

I’ve stood on the tops of 3 mountains:
a snow-covered peak, so windy that ice was coming off of the trees: fulfilled exhaustion & empty legs.
a quiet, gentle slope overlooking a tree-filled valley with the sound of a dog barking in the distance: silent revelry & leaf crunch.
a bracing and gorgeous wind-filled rock face looking right down on the Hudson River: gasping overwhelm of full heart & almost tears. Wow.

My assessment of intimacy until now has been a rudimentary equation:

If it feels good, it’s good = I should stay
If it feels bad, it’s bad = I should leave.

But intimacy is a wily gal. She changes her face and her tone. She expands and contracts. She’s never only one thing. She is never ending. She and I are getting to know each other - I’m standing on her feet while she teaches me to dance.

I wanted to (metaphorically) leave two people this week. Because I was uncomfortable and challenged by the story I was writing about intimacy. I was calling her a red flag. She doesn’t care for that.

I wanted them to make it easy for me to quit on them - I was practically waiting for them to give me the go-ahead to high tail it out of IntimacyLand and back to the safety of Alone. They buggered up my plans, because they both made it really hard for me to quit. They showed up. They held space. They met me in the mess. They invited me to dance.

It was horrible. And lovely. I panicked, I writhed, I sighed. And I was so in love with intimacy as she picked me up and twirled me around, that I giggled and shrieked out of joy.

What a fucking rollercoaster ride. What a wild embrace to fall into over and over again.

What a dance.