The Winter of a Golden Unicorn

On Wednesday, the equinox marks the beginning of spring, already showing its face, already insisting I discard leftovers from winter-- and further back to other seasons and years. This spring has forced its way in with colossal endings: my computer was hacked and email addresses were compromised; an online school I worked with went bankrupt and closed overnight; my other online school changed its curriculum for the American Literature course I teach; and my Nutri Bullet, which I have used for six years to make fruit and vegetable smoothies for breakfast and lunch, stopped working.  Still, I miss a winter that was no less surprising.

This year winter felt cozy in my 200 square foot studio apartment in Maine with redwood floors, window seat, futon, area rug, and standing lamp. For six years, I’ve lived with only the basics, not realizing I joined the collective consciousness of a minimalist and leaving-behind-a-small-carbon-footprint movement by owning only what I need—one spoon, fork, pot, plate.… (I’ve been fascinated recently by the tiny house and vanlife videos on YouTube with mostly millennials and retirees chucking the "bigger than big" American dream for its tiny nomadic version on wheels.  I must confess, though, to running the hot water in my baths in splurging amounts, but of all the earth’s most renewable resources, water is what I'm most addicted to, so I’ve dismissed living a life on wheels for fear that my abuse of water use would adjudicate me a “stoning by death” in a tiny home community).

But back to winter of which I spent thirty days in Florida-- and still the long arm of the season’s soulful lessons reached me even down South, challenging me to revisit leftover hurts from past relationships necessary for me to release and gain more inner peace I wrote my visit to Miami in Cleavage, Croquettes, and Everglades (http://destinationwildandfree.blogspot.com/2019/01/cleavage-croquettes-and-everglades.html). 

Then in February I was chosen to read my essay, My Almost First Loves (http://destinationwildandfree.blogspot.com/2019/01/my-almost-first-loves.html) at the library for the annual Valentine’s Day readings. Even though I took pleasure in writing it and winning a place in the contest, I wasn’t going to read it because it was an intimate account of my growing up years, my relationship with boys gone awry, and my violent parents’ hand in it; I kept that part of my life secret and took pride in silencing its shame, which I thought was the basis for my stoicism. Those wounds were buried in scars thick enough to prevent their rising or breathing.  But I remembered what Mea said to me in January after my Reiki treatment with her: “You need to speak your truth, preferably to a group of people,” she said. "Can I write about instead?" I asked. "No, you need to speak it," she insisted.

“Never,” I thought, “would I even consider doing such a thing.” Yet, here was the opportunity to speak the truth she mentioned (Mea was a powerful healer and for the last three years her Reiki had shaken loose my inner rubble ready to be let go).  So, I read my piece in front of thirty people at the library. With a shaking voice and a desire to cry, scream, laugh, and run mad like a woman escaping an asylum, I read to a silent audience of Mainers and immediately after went home to sleep it off.  The next day, I woke up feeling freer, and, at first, I couldn’t remember what I had done to achieve a soulful spaciousness so natural it felt as if it had always been a part of me. 

This winter I also allowed myself to be adored--to marvel at it and revel in it.  My five-year-old niece couldn't help it; adoration was in her large, bright, hazel eyes when I knocked at my sister’s apartment door in Brooklyn for a visit, and she gathered her playmates, ran with them to the front door, and introduced me, with a hand held out, as if I was a unicorn disguised as a human and just arrived from a ray of sunlight where she must have secretly hoped I lived. 

In the past, I shooed her and her friends away, but now I stood in quiet honor of her innocent and wonderful recognition (my sister told me she didn't regard anyone else the same way she did me) as she looked at the others to see if they recognized me too. My guise seemed obvious to her, so she waited for their responses, stared them in the eyes, and gave them time to acknowledge me, which baffled them even more, before she ran back to her room to play some more. And she introduced me with the same awe and hand held out at her school and ballet classes where she thought everyone would enjoy meeting a golden unicorn disguised as a human.