If I Were But Air

Returning is a tiny tragedy.

“Re”turn: it’s there in the name — to do over, to do again, the same as it ever was, the same as it ever was. Nietzsche had it right, though, let’s be honest - he may also have simply lacked the appropriate inspiration. Perhaps, only after this acknowledgment, or maybe after this refusal, comings and goings will take on a fluidity which will welcome easier adjustments. The Unbearable Lightness of Being; lightness, be it however unbearable.

If I were but air…

If I were but air.

How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?

When one exists more as breath than water, to inhale is a lifetime, though exhalation will resemble captivity.

Though I am but air, melancholy burdens my chest this evening, tugging my heart towards the centre of the earth and grasping my lungs in its ever graceful but ungrateful hold. I am stilled, as still as air can be, yanked to a halt in my forward trajectory and rudely contained by the seasonal shift and spare time and cash flow and looming sense of responsibility.

Wanderlust is not me, though I am coming to terms with a surprisingly continuous discovery that I crave motion and desire movement, both enemies of routine but harbingers of that most dire and treacherous c-word: CHANGE.

Two weeks ago, mid cross-Canada drive, I was witness to the Northern Lights. L and I lay sprawled beside our tent in the long lakeside grass, gnats buzzing in our ears and thistles nestled in bodily crevices, all forgotten as we fixated on the greenish-tinged streamers gently rippling up and across the prairie horizon.

Aurora Borealis: Dawn of the North. Further explanation nor description will ever do that night justice, and superfluous is rarely my style. In that moment, that night, my eyes and my being were more than enough.

L left today. And so, the foray back into “real life” begins. It’s lazy, sluggish, slow like cold honey meandering out of the jar into my morning coffee that I don’t even want anymore because I’ve become so adjusted to the easy instant granules which warmed more than my hands and mouth on the threshold of each chilled outdoor morning.

I miss the world.

Oh, those prairie skies.