The Little Prince and the Fox

I just got home from my post-lunch walk in the fields near my host family’s house. 

The weather has gotten cold again, dropping almost 30 degrees (Fahrenheit) overnight. The sky is heavy with grey-white clouds and the Rockies, which are usually visible from here, are hidden behind the snow already rolling in. 

The fields were quiet, apart from the geese calling and some mysterious bird of prey screeching. 

I could hear my heavy steps, my heart racing from my thyroid gone berserk. My health is still very shaky and all I can do to exercise is a short daily walk in my neighborhood. 

Today was peaceful as the snow flakes started to fall in the quiet atmosphere, as everything was sort of wrapped up in a quilt. The snow that covered the fields from the last snow-fall a couple weeks ago is almost completely melted but the ponds are still mostly frozen over. So today for the first time I ventured out on one of the frozen ponds, gingerly watching my step, feeling excited and happy in a simple way, like a child. 

This morning I started a new notebook for my journaling: a nice notebook that I got myself yesterday in a bookstore. 

Something has shifted. 

I’m still in between. In between sickness and health. In between winter and spring. In between Colorado and California. And yet today I feel a quiet peace within me. I feel more tranquil and grounded. I feel healed. Like I’ve turned a new page — like the new notebook I’ve started. Sure, the pages are still blank: my future, my decisions, my next steps haven’t been written yet, they are still mysterious and mostly unknown. But this sense of healing coming from the final closure with the “boulderer” is profound, like water from rain showers trickling into the ground, running deeply into the soil, and thus reaching the roots of the trees, infusing them with new — gentle but steady — life. 

I’m loving this winter here: I love it here in general and often feel that I’d like to move and settle here. This new sense of healing, though, is trickling into my relationship with that place in California where I had lived for four and a half years: I almost feel like I’d be “emotionally ready” to move back. 

It’s no time for a final decision for me, yet, and as unsettling as it may be, I’ll keep holding the “in between” for now: but I also want to celebrate this calmness of today’s “in between”, the renewed peace of this winter-spring enveloping me today, mindful that tomorrow might be different. 

This is today: a healing from “in between”; something as of yet unknown opening up while something else closed peacefully.

For the past few weeks I’ve been struggling with a sense of being in a limbo. The expression “holding the uncertainty” has come to my mind so often… Uncertainty, feeling “in-between”, neither really here nor there: uncertain of what I want to do professionally, of what I even want to do as of next summer or fall; the being “in between” geographically, neither in California anymore nor fully in Colorado in a stable way; not knowing where I want to live next; the being “in-between” genders; having a legal name with which I don’t identify anymore and cannot wait to change but being unsure of where and when and how to change it legally… 

I’ve been trying to hold all this uncertainty, while not thinking of it too much. 

But in the past two days, there’s been more than uncertainty for me to hold: there’s actually been certainty for me to hold. And I’m finding that certainty can be just as intense to hold as uncertainty. 

Ten days ago, I made a gift: a gift to myself, first of all; but I was hoping it might also be a gift for the other person, the one receiving my message. It was intended as a free gift, in order to give myself — my conscience, my soul, my heart — deeper peace and real closure, at last. It worked for me. But it went even further: it generated further gifts. 

I received a gift in response this week, two days ago: an unexpected reply to my message. And with it, certainty: the certainty of having been an extremely important figure in that person’s life; the certainty that the other person had special and intense feelings for me, too, as I did for them; the certainty that everything that I had imagined and intuited and felt was correct, was real, was true. 

It lasted three years, almost to the day. Three years of confused messages, of conflicting or tricky situations, of intense feelings that had to be mostly kept hidden. A weird relationship and yet one of the most intense, and maybe important, ones in my life. And now it’s finally healed: closure with everything being said, openly, honestly, with kindness and gratitude, on both sides. And with the knowledge of it having been mutual, mutual all along. 

And now I want to hold this certainty. After three years of doubts and uncertainty, of confusion and frustration, now I want to hold this little treasure, this precious gift. Just hold this feeling: hold it and kindle it to let my heart heal fully, to let my heart become whole again.

The power and sweetness of this closure, this closure with kindness and gratitude, is wonderful. It’s one of the most healing feelings I have ever experienced. 

But it’s also mixed — there are mixed emotions. There’s mostly a warm, soft joy, on the surface; there’s also a very intense relief and some deep satisfaction. But there’s also a sense of loss. Because for me this is truly the end: this relationship now lays fully in the past for me. In another ”lifetime”, as I wrote in my message — and I truly meant it. 

This morning I found myself telling my counselor about this latest exchange of messages and after a while he pointed out that I was talking about that relationship, that situation, that person, using the past tense, whereas the other person wrote about “reconnecting”, using the presence tense, in their email reply. That’s when it really hit me: for me it’s over. This time, I’ve really found my closure: I’m in a different place, both emotionally and geographically, from the last time we met in person. And I’m not going back. This is part of that certainty that I’m holding now: it’s partly heavy to hold but it’s also extremely precious, and I want to hold it for as long as I may need. Hold this certainty of having loved and been loved back, of having understood everything all along, of having planted some lasting seeds; but also hold the certainty of this being all in the past for me. 

Loss and relief. Bittersweet. But there’s something warm and golden and luminous about it. And that’s what I want to hold now: hold this little light in my heart now and for as long as I may want to, while I look ahead and walk on.

Last night I went to bed feeling miserable: profoundly sad and lonely. Granted, it’s partly due to the hormonal issue that sent me to the hospital last week and is hopefully temporary. But it is a fact that it took less of a month from my departure for my friends in California to forget me. And that hurts. 

This morning I woke up still feeling quite miserable as I’m still sickly and it’s now been over a week that I have unwell. 

But then two seemingly small things made a big difference for the better, at least to my mood. 

One: my running coach wrote me a short, sweet text msg, ”Thinking of you”! That’s all I need really: a brief acknowledgement of not having been forgotten. 

Two: the son of my host family, who’s the nicest 19-year-old I’ve ever known, asked me how he should conjugate my non-binary possessive pronouns in German (German is his mother tongue and the language we communicate in most of the time and it’s not only a very gendered language but also has cases and declinations). So we went to my computer and I showed him what I had found about the still-work-in-progress grammatical rules that are being made up for non-binary pronouns in German. It felt so good to be able to share this with him, knowing that he really cared. 

When I met my host family over five years ago, the son was a shy 14-year-old whose sweet intelligence was often shut down by his stuttering. At the time, I was just a prospective tutor, a trusted neighbor, a friend of a friend, and someone who generally shared a lot with his parents. Then, I was his Science teacher for his 8th grade, when he was still very shy and awkward. When I saw him again last summer, after a break of four years and shortly after his graduation from high school, I could hardly recognize him: he had blossomed so wonderfully! As far as age, I’m right in between him and his parents. And with all my experiences as well as multi-faceted character, interests, and non-binary gender, I get along with all three people in my host family almost equally well: different parts of me are friends with the three of them separately, in very spontaneous but different ways. Yet the easy closeness and camaraderie between the son and myself touches me more, maybe because it’s always a bit surprising to me. He truly does enjoy chatting with me and we actually do have quite a bit we share: common interests in mostly fun and reckless activities. We talk as if we were at once siblings and buddies. I love it. It’s like the boy in me can wholly come out and interact with him without it having to be mentioned explicitly and yet being fully understood. 

Today, it’s exactly one month that I’ve been here in my temporary home in Colorado! 

In this first month here I’ve already: 

– written two chapters of my textbook; 

– sent in one of those chapters to my editors for review; 

– been to my local climbing gym; 

– met a few climbing buddies for both indoor and outdoor activities; 

– met up three times with one of the friends I made here last summer; 

– joined an online writing group (thanks to the friend I have here); 

– had one (my first!) tattoo consultation; 

– reinitiated professional connections and arranged in-person meetings for the upcoming weeks; 

– reached out to, and received warm welcomes from, local LGBTQ+ & gender support groups; 

– come out to my sister (via email) about my non-binary/trans gender identity; 

– gone on many walks and hikes and runs on snowy trails; 

– needed to get my car towed for engine overheating and hitch-hiked a ride back home; 

– gone to see a doctor and been sent to the ED; 

– been forgotten by most of my friends back in California;

– experienced the warmth and kindness of many people here, including many strangers; 

– shoveled tons of snow!

[I cannot write about this horrible war Putin is waging on the Ukraine, for now, because it’s too painful for me.]

“What Sarah Said” [Death Cab for Cutie, “Plans” album]

“And it came to me then

That every plan

Is a tiny prayer to father time

As I stared at my shoes

In the ICU

That reeked of piss and 409

And I rationed my breaths

As I said to myself

That I’d already taken too much today

As each descending peak

On the LCD

Took you a little farther away from me

Away from me

Amongst the vending machines

And year old magazines

In a place where we only say goodbye

It sung like a violent wind

That our memories depend

On a faulty camera in our minds

And I knew that you were truth

I would rather lose

Than to have never lain beside at all

And I looked around

At all the eyes on the ground

As the TV entertained itself

‘Cause there’s no comfort in the waiting room

Just nervous paces bracing for bad news

And then the nurse comes round

And everyone lifts their heads

But I’m thinking of what Sarah said

That love is watching someone die

So who’s gonna watch you die

So who’s gonna watch you die

So who’s gonna watch you die”

This is one of my favorite songs by Death Cab for Cutie. For its lyrics. 

The closest I’ve been to serious, possibly life-threatening situations has been during my own COVID illness in March 2020 and my two ED visits, yesterday and three months ago. For now, I’ve always been on the side of the person needing comfort and have been blessed with “happy endings”. Nevertheless, the difference between my ED visit three months ago with a friend sitting next to me and holding my hand nearly the whole time compared to my lonely five hours in the ED yesterday and my weeks of isolation in the spring of 2020 is huge. The comfort that a human presence at one’s side in moments of intense physical pain and fear for one’s life can bring, at least for me, is hard to describe in words. 

I remember how I’ve often thought, during peaks in the pandemic, of those poor souls alone in their (hospital) beds fighting for their lives in total isolation for fear of spreading the infection: I cannot help but think that the isolation was almost as deadly for them as the virus.  [And I know this is just the tip of the iceberg, just one tiny drop in the ocean of human suffering, but every little drop can be unbearably painful.]

I’ve never been the one “at the bedside”. I don’t know how I would hold up to it. But I do believe that being there for someone in their hardest, scariest moment(s) is a profound act of love.

I’m finding it difficult to find an overall, stable balance. 

Despite feeling much better, lighter than I had in a long time in California, I’m still swinging between different, and often intense, emotions. 

There are a lot of moments of loneliness. Despite living with my host family. Despite my need and desire for solitude. It is undeniable that my mood invariably improves after interacting and/or chatting with other people, and even more so if in person. 

Getting my textbook done by the designated deadline is a great motivation, but it often isn’t enough: this work has been more difficult this week, partly because of the chapter’s contents/structure, partly because of my own oscillating emotions influenced by external factors as well (interactions with certain persons, lack of exercise due to injury). 

And so I swing — back and forth, up and down. 

But what does remain crystal clear is that I need in person interaction with other human beings; I need contact and connection (albeit it online/virtual/digital) with my close friends who are geographically distant; and I need to have goals that give meaning and purpose to my existence, to my daily life.

At 5am I woke up to pee, as I often do in the wee hours of the night or early morning. But this time, I didn’t go straight back to bed, despite my tiredness. The moon was full last night. And we had just had an abundant snow fall throughout the afternoon and evening. I had been waiting for such a coincidence of events for a couple weeks, at least, looking forward to the beautiful shine of the full moon on the pure white expanse blanketing everything. And last night I saw it. Even if only through the big front windows of the house because, unfortunately, I was truly too tired to get dressed and go out for a walk at that time. But I promised myself that if I get another full moon on a clear night over a beautiful expanse of snow like last night, I’m going to go out for a walk in it. I might even be able to do it this evening before going to sleep… 

Nevertheless, the promise of the snow storm ending by 5am and leading up to a clear night in perfect synchrony with the return of the full moon — that promise was held and I was able to enjoy it. 

Another promise was held last night. One to myself that I made in summer of 2016, about six months after moving from Europe to California, and that I sealed with a ring that I still always wear. I promised myself that I would never again put myself in the conditions of having to make an important life decision influenced by a romantic partner or romantic feelings in a way that would be limiting of my own identity or deepest needs/dreams. Which effectively meant, and means, that if there were someone for whom I feel in a strong, special, or romantic way in a moment of my life when I actually need to work on personal issues of my own and/or make an important decision along my path for which I need to reflect on my own, I would ask that person to wait. 

And last night I did it. I asked my dear non-binary friend back in California who would have wanted to visit me here already in two or three weeks to wait. I also told them that I’m scared; that I would like to see them but need some extra time and space on my own now; that this decision is also hard for me and scary because I’m afraid of losing their friendship if I ask them to wait. And they replied that I wouldn’t lose their friendship, that it’s always okay to take time. 

I really hope they mean it. I’ll have to take the risk anyway. A lot went unsaid, at least on my part, a lot that I wish I had said, or had said differently. So I might write them a letter. I don’t really know how they feel about me and our friendship. There might have been a lot left in between the lines in our conversation last night, or not. Nevertheless, I kept my promise to myself, I followed my gut feeling, and despite this being a very scary and lonely decision for me, I know this is what I need to do for my own good (as well as the other person’s) right now. 

Here and now.

It’s snowing again — technically, we’re in for another snow storm until tomorrow morning. I made it to the climbing gym and back just before it started today. 

I actually like this alternating, varied winter weather. Snow storms last only a couple days, blanketing everything in a soft layer of white. The temperatures drop below freezing for a few days. The sun starts shining again while it’s still cold, and then the temperatures start rising again up into the 40s or even low 50s. The snow on the roads and fields slowly melts, at least partly. The trails become a fun mix of mud, ice, snow and dirt (quite tricky!), while the mountains on the horizon remain blanketed in their white coats. 

During the day or two of heavy snow falling, we all stay indoors, but then, as soon as it stops, we’re all outside, enjoying the outdoors again. And then this cycle repeats itself, once every week or ten days or so. 

I like it. I love it. And it resonates well with my present state of mind, with my heart’s own current cycles: the waves of grief, the sadness, the spontaneous reflections, sitting with my emotions, the need to relax, to slow down; and the exuberance, the love for nature and the outdoors, the joy of being in a place that is somewhat familiar to me but mostly still new and exciting. And all my emotions, although very profound and intense, all so calm and much more tranquil than ever before. 

I’ve been here three weeks now, roughly a fifth of the time I have planned here, and I still feel it’s been one of the best decisions of my life to take this particular, maybe unique, break. 

Cat therapy is REAL — at least, for me it is! 

My host family has an adorable cat, Gaia. 

When I first met them, almost six years ago, they also had Gaia’s brother Helios, and during the Christmas holidays of 2016-2017, I took care of their house and both their cats for a couple weeks. It was the first time I had ever really done cat-sitting and I remember how blissful (and healing) it was. 

And it’s the same now. Gaia has always been very cuddly. Even when Helios was still alive, she was the one who’d always come and lay in my lap and snuggle with me as son as I sat to relax. She did it last summer here, too, even with my whole host family present, and she’s doing it again now. 

It’s amazing how blissful it can be to just sit and relax with a cat in one’s lap, stroking it while it purrs. 

Maybe it’s also this sitting with Gaia purring in my lap that is helping me to sit with my emotions, literally as well as figuratively, with more and more ease?!?