“How do you show up in the world when you surrender your attachments to the cosmos?”
by Dan Vega
“I Am Love”
Fiction. Based on a True Regrowth and Reclamation.
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
This is why I avoid you. Because you pry into my life like it’s a clamshell. Poking your eye in because you think it’ll help. Picking at the little anomalies like you do to the pimples on my back. I know you’re doing it out of love, but . . . it hurts.
What business is it of yours if I want to sleep with him? If I drive him to a parking lot and have sex with him in the back of the car? I enjoyed fucking him. I know that’s not how you raised me, but don’t you want me to be my own person?
I became my own person when I moved three thousand miles away and began reveling in my newfound freedom. I left because I was stifled here, and now here I am again, choking on the air that kept me alive in the beginning and again, so recently. But now that I’m living and I’m vital, again, I don’t need the milk. I don’t want it anymore.
I can feed myself now. These feet were made for walking: for running, alone, in the dark, if that’s what they want to do. These hands were made for music: music late at night while your TV is blaring in the living room and you’re asking me to stop. These lips were made for kissing. This body is mine, and it was made to make love.
I find myself trapped again, but at least it’s a safe kind of trapped. There’s no falling apart here. There’s just secrecy and a yearning to fly away, to fly away to broader, more dangerous places where I can stretch my wings. There is no gain without risk.
Did you ever believe that? Or did you always act from a place of safety, of accordance with yourself and your God? I can respect that. But can you respect that I, too, am acting out of a place of accordance with myself—a place of self-truth and honesty with my God? That is, the Universe? The Universe is a safe place for me. It wants me to be happy. It’s pulling me in the right directions. All I’m doing is trying to follow.
I have outgrown this place. I have re-nested; I have grown back, and my leaves are full again. The roots are pot-bound. I must be re-potted and, perhaps, in the near future, pruned a bit. But only to grow back, stronger, as I have done before.
I am a product of the other. I am made of dirt and wine and open sky, of making love in meadows, of ice-cold rivers and hot, humid summer nights in the deep south. I was made in the Sawtooth Mountains and grown in the swamps of the bayou. I am a woman of the Earth.
I was made here, in America. My people have been here for thousands of years, and my body is my own. We are all people of this earth, and if I wish to love and to be made love to, it is my way of reconnecting.
Love is the vital force that connects us. Who can fault me for tapping into that which sustains me?