Salad Days

He did not count the time down, but suspended in the air between the dust motes was always the same timing. Here in the sacred rituals of his life was a rhythm to which he effortlessly moved. The ebb and flow as he prepared his breakfast and the first mug of tea calmed him more than the tea itself.

The kitchen was not tidy. The kitchen was also not untidy. It existed in that space that spoke of it being lived in. There was no mess. Only the hint of works in progress. He looked beyond that which he often took for granted and gave thanks for the dry day that was taking place beyond the kitchen window. He could do that day and he could do that well. Dry days held more welcome and more promise for him. Damp days oozed into his joints and restricted his movement. This guise of day before him was a preference. But there was never an obstacle to his filling days as best he could. He’d ceased creating such challenges.

The tea warmed and brightened him. A taste and a more of home. He’d observed the tea ritual as a child and in his observations another ritual had been born. Making tea for others was an act of companionship. That was the warmth he was imbibing.

He was alone. There was no loneliness in his solitude. He had become accustomed to his own company. Sometimes thought that he may be addicted to it. Made the effort to go forth and be amongst people. Regularly, he joined his tribe at the local pub. The dynamic in that home from home was fluid. No one visit was replicated. The movement of life was perfectly mirrored within those four walls. The contrast between that room and his own suited him just fine. There at the local was where he entertained. Here he spent time making sense of himself and the life before him so he could be more present in each and every moment. Relax in the company of others and give of himself all the more.

This had all been a long time coming. Via dreams fulfilled and nightmares endured. All things must end. And they had. How much of this was by his own hand, he had an increasing idea. There was more of him in the car crashes of his life then there was in the triumphs.

These days, he communed with the ghosts that dwelt in his heart. There was a gentle silence to them. They were a part of him and yet they stood apart from his essence and bore witness to the life he was living. He was never really alone. He’d done too much honest and earnest living for that. Behind him there was a trail of blood, sweat and tears. Necessary sacrifices. A series of deaths making way for more life.

The house he dwelt in had once been a family home, and as far as he was concerned it still was. Had remained so even in the aftermath of shock and betrayal. Remaining steadfast in what counted and held value for him, he never ceased to love someone he had had to accept he’d never known. Repurposing himself to his newfound status had been painful. Assailed by the fundamental questions of life, reality threatened to slip away from him as he struggled to stay afloat in the madness of a profound grief that would not be denied. The power of it overwhelmed him even as it saved him.

Loss was so familiar to him that it stood shoulder to shoulder with all his ghosts. He felt a weight of the ages, as though he’d been born to loss. A legacy that was his to do with as he would. Perhaps that was the lot of everyone. Whatever the truth of it, he’d held this enemy close, conversing with it at the campfire following each battle. Now he could see that most of what that loss wore was illusory. In the end, only his love remained. And it always would.

Searching for truth had been a campaign he’d waged even before his wounds had begun to heal. There was nothing here for him on this battlefield of graves. The war had been lost and the victors had been all the worse for it. His vainglorious statues and the structures he’d painstakingly built had been burnt to the ground and in the fertile soil that remained, he had started over. Built something that would last the test of time. No reliance on the whims and whimsies of others. This time he’d invested in himself. Backed what he knew as he ventured into the unknown.

And in this peace, he had gently thrived. Solitude was a comfort. He learnt to seek out the silence within and eventually understood that there was where he resided. This was a place of harmony and quiet. He found joy in the simplicity of his life. Not a kicking and screaming cacophony of joy, but the serenity that few would ever experience. He’d glimpsed it many years ago when he gazed upon the sleeping form of his new born son. He’d witnessed perfection in that moment and been swept away to the place he now visited frequently. Many years had passed until he could still himself sufficiently to see what had always been there.

The choreography of his life now suited him. Little by little and bit by bit he’d exerted a force of will upon his daily routine. A discipline that became enshrined in ritual. Clothing himself in familiarity, he no longer sought to escape from the present moment. Only when he came to rest did he see how far he had run from himself. Busying himself in an act that helped blind him to what he should have been doing all along.

Age was an odd and sorry thing. Everything he’d lived had brought him to this exact moment. Then why should he begrudge the journey to the place where he belonged? Still, he had fought with himself over the merits of his efforts. Questioned why it was that he should come here alone. Laughed at the absurdity of the notions he clung onto. This part was always for him and him alone. To find himself was a solo endeavour. Kindness came after he set up camp in this life of his. He gradually ceased beating himself up. Time was a cruel bed mate. He was not late to the party, he had to remind himself of that. All that mattered was that he’d arrived and he was present and accounted for.

In finding himself he discovered that he was a single aspect of everything. That he was so much more than the individuated entity he’d thought himself to be. He was a part of a play that would not make sense unless he strode out onto the stage and spoke his truth. The narrative of life made sense at last and he was at peace with his part in the story. A story that had no end and had begun in a space beyond his comprehension. The supposed limitation of his mortality became beautiful to him. His life glowed all the more for its impermanence.

The knock on his door was entirely unexpected. A rude awakening from the rituals he was indulging himself in. He had settled down with a mug of tea and two shortbread biscuits. Brushed his legs down in a gesture he was not entirely aware of, but one that had to be performed prior to his opening the paperback. This a crime novel. The next a promise of revelatory perspective. But then all stories were.

He looked from the open page of his book to the living room door. The invitation of the page pulled him away from the door momentarily. But then he sensed a change in the air around him and his curiosity was peaked. The front door would be opened. That was all there was to it.

She was walking away by the time he got to that door. He watched her and was shamed to understand that he was feeling a sense of relief. There was an opportunity here to avoid change. He shook his head at his foolishness. The change had already occurred. Her knock at the door had seen to that. His choice was how he painted it. He could affect its nature with ignorance or acceptance. There was always a choice. The bad default always tried to paint itself as no choice at all. A line of least resistance. An easy option that always lead to difficulties down the line.

He glanced back in the direction of his paperback and a plan that was now in tatters.

“Hey!” he tried to say it as neutrally as he could, but the word seemed clumsy to him as it travelled out towards her.

She stopped and turned in one fluid motion her smile appeared only once she had seen him. He felt its warmth. The smile was hers, but it was a gift to him.

“Hiya!” she waved her greeting with an object she was carrying. A gesture that was unnecessary but somehow appropriate. Another piece of her. She wore herself comfortably and gave freely.

He did not know what to do about this interruption or about her. His capitulation concerned him and it pleased him in equal measure. He would never recall how it was that she came to be in his kitchen. She asked him to make her a cuppa. There was no demand in it. It was a good idea. That they could agree upon. Besides, she had bought him stew. Wanted to cook for someone other than herself for a change. He could not refuse the gift and as he eyed the trojan horse he realised that he could not refuse her or this invasion of his inner sanctum.

All the same, in a time that had existed only minutes ago, he would have felt possessive at her picking up his book. There was a reverence in her movement and when she asked him about it she displayed a rare interest coupled with an insistence to listen that was refreshing and pleasant.

As she awaited his reply, her peace spoke to his. There was a curiosity about her that laid him vulnerable. His hijacked day had taken a turn that had already stuck. Four mugs of tea later they were hugging. A temporary parting. He looked down upon her as they held each other and could not help but return her smile. She infected him with her energy and he was all too willing to come down with the bug she was carrying. They would kiss. He was certain of that. But not now. There was so much more to come, and in that knowledge he knew that it was already there between them. A strange but illuminating certainty that made time, past and future redundant.

That night, as he laid down his book and prepared for sleep, the plaintive refrains of a song played in his mind and he smiled at the messages it brought to him.

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me.

Last night I felt real arms around me.

He’d felt the love shining out from her. Barely contained. Few would see it. Nor would they appreciate it for what it was. The depth and purity of love that she’d searched a lifetime for. He felt no need to appropriate any of it. Theirs was a meeting that he’d never experienced before. Never dared hoped could happen in this lifetime. A rare gem that could not be searched for. A gift. Never a right.

He nodded and smiled further as he was reminded that he would meet himself any number of times as he walked the path of his life. So many meetings and so many lessons. Today she had brought more for him to learn. And he realised that he was ready. The rituals of his life already flexing and opening to make room for the gentle disruption and much needed sacrifice of a rewarding relationship.

The story goes on.

The smile remained on his face as he drifted into a deep and blissful slumber.