I'm on holidays right now, with my children and one of my best friends and her family. We have come to this same spot year after year. I'm settled outside my well assembled tent, my children over at my friends camp, as I catch a quiet moment. I love this time of rest, no timetable to stick to, the days filled with spontaneity, swimming, sun, running on the beach. Last night we ran fast as we could along the beach under the moon, in a wild playfulness.
I couldn't make this trip on my own, and that does make me feel a little vulnerable, dependent on my friend and her family to help me set up camp, put up our protective shelter, their company, cheerfulness. I know they think of me as family, and have proved many a time that they love and care for me, but doubt about how much I can respectfully lean on the kindness of their hearts remains. It highlights to me that I am on my own, no capable loyal man to help me on my way, to collapse into, plant sweet kisses on, to bring to his knees with my touch. To shift and slip back and forth between quiet shared moments of understanding and fiery slices of sexual pleasure. And finally, to argue with over which tent pole goes where. In choosing the path I have, I need to be that little bit stronger, to have that willingness to put myself out there, to try and fail and pick up my own pieces. To get used to certain disappointments that come about by just not being able to do everything on my own. I'm not diminishing the wonderful relationships between my lifelong friends and me, I am blessed here, loved by a handful very close to unconditionally, but it is different to the partnership that can exist between lifelong lovers. And at times I am haunted by the ghostly spectre of a partner I do not have.
I am responsible for the lives of two precious children, lovely lovely they are, the stakes could not be higher. Falling down is not an option. So when this fear, this floating debris of self doubt and grim solitude winds it's way in, I just need to remember that eventually the king tide will arrive, in all it's glory, and wash it away once again.
I wax and I wane. As I should.