the art of "getting by"
“And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me,
Shine on till tomorrow
Let it be”
I’m sitting in the corner of my room, in the comfiest of chairs, staring outside my window as the rain falls. The beauty of the sound of each raindrop as it hits the pavement is one I can’t quite explain. You just have to be there, you have to hear it. The smell before it starts to rain, is probably one of my favorite smells, aside from the scent of old books. At times life moves so fast we don’t notice the sun is setting, the rain is falling, the days are fleeing, children are getting older, the trees lose its leaves and as they fall to the ground, new ones take their place. Life passes you by in the blink of an eye, and where are we? The same place we were a year, five years ago? Desolate, like a city left in ruins over past relationships with folks who managed and mastered the art of “getting by.” Not being the one holding the steering wheel of my life is my greatest fear. I’ve put my mere focus on the essence of controlling every part of my story. I’ve erased the parts I didn’t like, taken photographs of the memorable, brief period of times. I’ve taken time and put it in my back pocket because I’ll eventually reach my dreams, right? The days go by and I feel like I am in control, until I don’t. Until the winter comes. And the leaves fall, and ruins and devastate surround me. Until the earth is ugly in its form and I am forced to mourn. I am forced to wait till the spring where the lilies bloom and the sun is bright, and then for a brief second, I’m in control again.
But those moments, where the night is cold, and the starts are nowhere to be found, who am I? I lose sight because I am no longer in control. I’m nothing but a child who throws a tantrum and cries desperately until she gets what she wants.
Let it be
A concept so simple and yet so foreign to me. How do I let go of a steering wheel that I’ve been holding my entire life? The truth is, I’m still learning. The spring only comes once a year, and so what? I’ll be lost until then? I’m in the winter of my life and it is cold and lonely. I dream of sunny days where I rode on the open road with my arms wide open.
I’m a dreamer. I dream of sunflower fields, and mountains with such beauty as far as the eye can see. I dream of writing raw, valiant, spirited, shakes-you-to-your-core poetry. I dream of one day helping the rejects of society.
But oh winter, how you’ve shattered my fragile heart and my hopes.
A wise woman once said, “it takes everything you’ve ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.” I’ve been so preoccupied holding the wheel that I hadn’t realized all I had lost.
A tragic ending to a story would end with “what if?”
My father wants every bit and every piece of me. And that terrifies me And puzzles me. He always seems to have the answers. He’s Begging to carry me from the winter to the spring, to the summer, and wants to hold me in his arms during the harsh winter. He wants me to bury my head in his refuge. And I, forever stubborn, will refuse. The winter takes away my identity and has me questioning where I’m going and where I’ll be. However, the one that created me has already had the answers.
Perhaps I can lift one finger and watch as it falls off the wheel one at a time and let my father regain control. Then quite possibly maybe I wouldn’t let life pass me by. I’ll start to remember the scent of the rain and watch as the spring lilies bloom. Maybe the art of getting by is letting go of control, letting things be, and pausing to smell fresh brew coffee beans in the morning.
Perhaps the Beatles felt “Let it be” was equal to inner peace, all along.
Till next time
With all my love,