This is a time of rebirth, as it springs up in tiny green shoots in the garden or as a sacred anthem of the reborn self.
Such as the one told by a woman on the radio the other day; yet another #metoo story to add to the mountain of stories upon which we stand, as women healing. I listened with rapt attention, as one does when reliving personal trauma through another. Just then my phone buzzed to signal an incoming text: "Hey, love, you there? Still at this number?"
"I passed your exit the other night on my way home from a gig, and have been thinking about you since. Want to meet for a drink sometime? I miss you, baby."
Every few months he pops in to find out if I'm available. Probably, his latest girlfriend has just dumped him and he's fishing for some nurturing, a bit of comfort, and a chance to drink at the fountain of the divine feminine.
Another text arrives: "Hey, sweetie, you there?"
I type "Yes," but actually I'm not, because I'm transported back in time, remembering what it was like to be a member of his present and doting audience, standing by to reassemble the pieces of his latest existential crisis. .
"Are you dating anyone? Just tell me if you want me to leave you alone."
My tummy is in intense knots of nausea now, a signal that I'm dangerously merged with my inner child. Of course I see him; the wounded little boy beneath the fragile facade that fails to shield his rage-filled heart. That's what empaths do; we see. But seeing him doesn't excuse his treatment of me.
I collect myself and typed, "Hey, remember, we agreed not to have contact. I love you and wish you well."
His message came seconds later: "Okay, fine. I understand and I won't bother you again."
That's good, dear. Because, really, authentic love isn't pathological.