Blend Into the Wicker

When I was a teenager, about 16 years old, my parents would call these family meetings where they'd sit me down in the family room, my dad on my left on the sofa and my mom on my right in her soft blue wing-armed chair, and they'd talk to me as I sat across from them on the loveseat. In between us stood an expensive glass-topped white wicker coffee table, and when the family meeting got uncomfortable, I'd sink my gaze into the twirling wooden twine of wicker that licked the edge of the blue-green glass and I would "blend into the wicker" in some feeble attempt of escape. I would enter myself into the white wood, bending and sliding along, filling my senses with anything but the discomfort of conflict.

I had my share of tumultuous teen years and I can imagine it was difficult for my parents to watch. They wanted to save me, I could tell, but all I really needed to do was just plow through it all and let the discomfort strengthen me and teach me.

There are moments still, where I find myself blending into the wicker. I love running along the dyke out by Andrew's place because it's where water meets mountain, where the leaves of each branch on every tree seem to curl their fingers into me and sweep me up and away from the mire. Last week I stood along the edge of the river and faced myself squarely into the mountain and, from the depth of my hurt, riding on the coattails of my ever-growing strength, I sang as hard as I could into the open air.

It's not always me-against-world, but sometimes, when it feels like I am alone, I let myself be cradled by the salve of peace and then I know in that moment, I will be okay.