No longer has time for me
The realization that someone who formerly made time for you (me) now no longer chooses to make time disheartens. Actually, the reality is even more heartbreaking than the realization.
During our active friendship weeks, months, we would communicate by email daily, multiple times. An email would sit in the inbox awaiting notice, accompanied by a smile and a thrill. When either had opportunity, a response, brief or long, would be returned - also with a smile and attentive thought.
An occasional text or phone call would augment the written correspondence. Those remote connections interspersed with in person meetings - a lunch, a walk, a shared event.
Now, no in person encounters, as per intentional request. No phone calls to confer about life, the universe and everything, no texts to arrange plans, send photos, or quick news. Emails, intermittent, and of a very different tone, often absent the smile.
However, I write emails, because I feel the pull and valued the verbal interplay.I long for the exchange couched in vast vocabulary, engaged conversation, thoughtful discussion, and friendly phrasing.
The responses that were once prompt, natural, engaged, and rich with nuance are now infrequent, unpredictable, often a tad distant, as if the formerly accessible individual is accessible no longer. I realize this, and yet I write - not multiple times a day, not even daily, just occasionally. Even so, when I write the reality of rejection repeatedly hits me more painfully than the realization that the connected flow is terminated.
Phone calls go unanswered; though only one phone call have I made,and it was not answered, responded to, nor even acknowledged.
The same with the one text sent inviting to a walk on a sunny, brisk, beautiful winter's day - no response, no acknowledgement.
Ahhh, why can't I stop reaching out?
Ever has that been among my struggles. A tendency not to walk away from rejection. Clearly I am unwanted. Clearly it does not matter that formerly the flow was abundant, natural, encompassing.
I cannot reconnect - for connection requires both entities contribute. I, alone, cannot reforge. I cannot will interaction.
In stead, I can, I must, I need to: Let it go.
Never mind the void left in its place. Never mind the incessant sound of the sea inside the conch shell.The sound is an echo of emptiness. Hollow, not the sea encompassed.
No longer songs of a maiden fair.
No longer appreciation for the thoughts, the words, the observations, the questions, the openness, the giving.
The water is gone, a mirage perhaps is all it was. Or, at best, a vernal pool. Life sustaining, then dried and gone. Yes, that feels more apt an analogy. A vernal pool. In a woodland. Near a meadow. Where once a campfire burned, and prolific vines grew. Quiet now. Still. A memory of a moment full of life, and beauty and potential. Ask the woodfrog, she will explain. Ask the spotted salamander. The depression remains, filled with leaves fallen from the treetops.Perched in the treetop, you may even see an owl.
During our active friendship weeks, months, we would communicate by email daily, multiple times. An email would sit in the inbox awaiting notice, accompanied by a smile and a thrill. When either had opportunity, a response, brief or long, would be returned - also with a smile and attentive thought.
An occasional text or phone call would augment the written correspondence. Those remote connections interspersed with in person meetings - a lunch, a walk, a shared event.
Now, no in person encounters, as per intentional request. No phone calls to confer about life, the universe and everything, no texts to arrange plans, send photos, or quick news. Emails, intermittent, and of a very different tone, often absent the smile.
However, I write emails, because I feel the pull and valued the verbal interplay.I long for the exchange couched in vast vocabulary, engaged conversation, thoughtful discussion, and friendly phrasing.
The responses that were once prompt, natural, engaged, and rich with nuance are now infrequent, unpredictable, often a tad distant, as if the formerly accessible individual is accessible no longer. I realize this, and yet I write - not multiple times a day, not even daily, just occasionally. Even so, when I write the reality of rejection repeatedly hits me more painfully than the realization that the connected flow is terminated.
Phone calls go unanswered; though only one phone call have I made,and it was not answered, responded to, nor even acknowledged.
The same with the one text sent inviting to a walk on a sunny, brisk, beautiful winter's day - no response, no acknowledgement.
Ahhh, why can't I stop reaching out?
Ever has that been among my struggles. A tendency not to walk away from rejection. Clearly I am unwanted. Clearly it does not matter that formerly the flow was abundant, natural, encompassing.
I cannot reconnect - for connection requires both entities contribute. I, alone, cannot reforge. I cannot will interaction.
In stead, I can, I must, I need to: Let it go.
Never mind the void left in its place. Never mind the incessant sound of the sea inside the conch shell.The sound is an echo of emptiness. Hollow, not the sea encompassed.
No longer songs of a maiden fair.
No longer appreciation for the thoughts, the words, the observations, the questions, the openness, the giving.
The water is gone, a mirage perhaps is all it was. Or, at best, a vernal pool. Life sustaining, then dried and gone. Yes, that feels more apt an analogy. A vernal pool. In a woodland. Near a meadow. Where once a campfire burned, and prolific vines grew. Quiet now. Still. A memory of a moment full of life, and beauty and potential. Ask the woodfrog, she will explain. Ask the spotted salamander. The depression remains, filled with leaves fallen from the treetops.Perched in the treetop, you may even see an owl.
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