The Octopus and Tumbleweed

I feel his gaze before I see him. A deep pull almost turns me inside out and straight into the space between my body and the air around me. This strangeness of feeling makes me look into the crowd for the source. I spot him like a shooting star’s glow across a night sky. His eyes are down, where he is maybe writing or reading, I can’t tell. Then he looks up at me, his eyes studying me intensely as I move through the air, where I am suspended in the space that I can so clearly feel all around me now. It is all so distracting I lose my concentration and slip mid-air a few feet before I regain my grip. The crowd gasps. My head hangs to where I am now looking directly at him, his golden-green eyes wide, holding me steady in the air. Who is he?

He reminds me of a tumbleweed. A tangled brown mess frames his head, and comes to a definitive point, barely hiding his chiseled jowl. I notice a raised notch high on his tanned nose, still rosy from an encounter with something. I refocus and finish my performance, thanking my audience for their attention and applause. His eyes are down again, and I find myself slipping offstage like a captured octopus, escaping down a drain pipe to the sea... as I go hide in the ladies bathroom.

I find myself feeling exposed and understood at the same time, and more like a teenager than these 33 years that I have grown into. Slowly, I unravel myself from a tight ball atop a toilet seat and slip outside the door, one tentacle at a time, unsure of what will find me when I go out. But I find nothing, as the crowds move easily past me.

I walk back onto the stage and look across a sea of brown folding metal chairs. I walk over to the the area where he was and see a blank page lying amongst the sawdust and empty pistachio shells. I pick it up. Did he leave me a note, or perhaps his name and number? As I turn it over, my stomach immediately flips along with it. Tears sting my eyes, as I strain to see through the emotions welling up inside.

There, on textured recycled paper, I see myself etched by his hand, moving on the silks with my dark hair flipping through the wind. It’s truly the energy of me that he has captured, and I suddenly feel very known and yet vulnerable. I look around, scanning the silhouettes that are coming in for my next performance, but not one tumbleweed appears. I feel safe and empty and childish, all at the same time.

A month goes by until I feel the pull again, this time in my throat and chest. I look around, at all the faces near my table, but no one is familiar. I take a sip of my London Fog, eyes still scanning for some unknown object. I refocus on my book, but suddenly sunlight spatters across the page, causing my vision to bounce up and off the printed vanilla.

It is then that I catch a glimpse of the tumbleweed rolling past in the distance. His hair now tucked behind the ear, jaw exposed, golden-green eyes forward. Do I get up and pursue him? With my teacup suspended mid-air, my confused feet dance in place. His head turns and we lock eyes. Blue-black butterflies dance in my belly. I glance down just in time to watch one escape… and when my eyes level back, he is gone.

I raise up from my seat, and catch sight of his smoldering outline tumbling away from me. Leaving my cup clattering to the table, I sprint through the conversations until I am so close I can smell his earthiness, almost touching his shoulder. He turns, tanned skin smiling, with the surprised look of something that has just been caught. No words come to me as the escaping butterflies are flitting all around, filling my mouth and mind.

Breaking the awkward silence, he introduces himself and I mumble something in response. It’s difficult to talk with a mouth full of flapping wings.

“You found it, didn’t you?” he speaks above the crowds chatter, yet I can still barely hear him.

“Yes, yes, it was quite a shock actually. Where did you learn to draw like that?” even as I feel miles away from my body, I am able to volley a question back.

“Self taught. Did you like it?” he looks to connect with me, as I float around us.

“Um, yeah…” and then just like that, I am back in my body, suddenly aware of my balmy palms, feeling the little beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and the fluttering that continues from somewhere deep inside. My lips are able to form the words that invite him to join me at my table, and I find myself leading us back through the conversations surrounding us, to where my tea and book awaits our company.

___________

I can’t remember his name or what we talked about, but I do know that I will be seeing him later this evening. I had the where-with-all to put this date in my phone calendar, but was too embarrassed to ask for his name again. So his contact is simply "Tumbleweed". These last couple of days have passed like a slow moving dinner boat on the Seine River, brimming with the promise of an unforgettable experience.

I look through the colors in my wardrobe, feeling into each hue until one brings me calm. The butterflies are full on again, but begin to ease as they morph into the brown, olive and yellow vintage patterns of my dress. It was a birthday gift from a dear friend, and I can feel her support and encouragement through the light silky fabric.

I have not been on a date in almost a year. I have been somewhat fearful to repeat the kind of relationships I attracted before. I am done with the narcissistic patterns. I learned that I was an enabler, and a narcissist too.

Over the last few years, with a the help of a somatic psychotherapist, I unraveled the tangled webs of my early childhood traumas through awareness of bodily observations. I unwound many past hurts from my nervous system, by releasing the trapped energy of a tapping foot that wants to run away; of twitches in my shoulders that sought to protect my heart; of my shaking hands that only wanted to push pushy people away; of a trembling jaw that is crying herself back to sleep in the crib.

It was my issues around my emotionally unavailable and very judgmental father that held the most pain. So strong was my need for approval, coupled with my fear of rejection, that I attracted much attention from the wrong kinds of people. People who didn’t care about me. People who just wanted to take my innocence and beauty for themselves, without giving anything back. And I had let them in. Sometimes against my awakening will. My therapist helped my mind and body release the memory of all these occurrences.

Anyway, I didn’t want to repeat any of this. I was no longer interested in being a victim of any kind. Awareness is a great keeper, and it has been keeping me safe ever since I began observing my own motives, thoughts, actions and attractions.

The sunset’s intense colors stream through my window, casting a warm glow into my room as I brush my hair one final time. I stroke black liquid liner on my eyelids with a final flick upwards, mimicking the shadow of long lashes. Just a little something-something I learned from Angelina Jolie.

My face has turned a heartfelt pink, and I think of how far I have come while my gaze hovers in the mirrors' reflection. I look deeply into my eyes and say out loud, “I love you.” I feel my heart flutter and my mind ease as I feel the truth of the words I have spoken to myself. A tear wells up in my left eye, and I let it tumble down my cheek, catching it with my tongue when it reaches my lips.

I am worthy. I am deserving of love. I am a gift to this world. I am beautiful just as I am.

The doorbell chimes, and I turn away from my reflection, now full of the colors of a setting sun. I walk to the door to greet the tumbleweed awaiting me on the other side.

I have no idea how this is going to play out, but I will listen to my intuition when it speaks up. I will stay true to myself, as calmly and comfortably as I can, even while oxytocin courses through my body.

I take a final deep breath, as I gingerly reach a tentacle out and open the door to a smile that I will remember forever.