Winter

Pigeon posts into the past

“Wow! Your uterus has seen some wear and tear!” a radiologist once exclaimed to me while administering an internal ultrasound, and that about sums up how I’ve lived my life.

More is more, sleep when you’re dead, how fast does this thing go?

I’m not under any illusions that I’m at the midpoint of my life anymore. Living to 116 would be obnoxious, and unlikely given what I’ve put my body through. But boy, I’m feeling winter this year and I was happy to see the solstice. I like the upside-down-ness of my American friends posting long summer days while my fingers burn with cold at the bus stop. I like knowing that sunset will come a little later each night, that cycles keep cycling while my own cycles have ceased. I like stretching my own little life against that template and I like it even more when it fits.

Mid life. For me, this has been where the pigeons have come to roost, where the consequences of a lifetime of impulsive, stupid, brave, mad, prudent, joyful decisions make themselves felt.

That solstice got fucking dark, let me tell you. I thought I could get dark in my teens, twenties, thirties, but in this early winter darkness I sometimes couldn’t see the hand in front of my face until I felt the sting of its slap.

Unfortunately this is not my hand, nor my pigeon. Photo by Vika Glitter.

Regret has felt heavy and cold and hard to handle. Those pigeons have lined up in the rafters and shat all over the place.

In scraping it up, though, I’ve made space for growth, even at here in my dotage. I’ve tagged those little fuckers and put them to work, dozens of homing pigeons carrying tiny rolled up messages from adult me to my wannabe little boy self, my teenage self, my 20 year old nascent lesbian self. And so on.

Often I work with people who sit in regret too, and encourage them to find compassion for the version of self that experienced that trauma, made those decisions. Like so many suggestions, this is a simple but not easy task. One person had so little experience with either children or being spoken to kindly that he had no frame of reference whatsoever, and when I gave him an example of what he might say to his four-year-old self - “It’s ok, honey. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.” - he wept, a big grown up man tapping into that child self for a beautiful moment. Another was firm in her belief that her adolescent self was just plain ugly, far uglier than other pubescent girls, and the move away from repulsion toward compassion was long, slow and painful.

I’ll unroll my little pigeon posts and share them with you, in case you want to borrow some for your own younger self.

• It’s ok that your brain works differently. That brain will be very useful one day.

• You, with your acne, braces and glasses, are precious and gorgeous and worthy of love.

• Of course you long to belong. There is nothing more human.

• Except for making mistakes - also very human. Screwing up happens. You’re still a good kid / partner / mother.

• You’re safe with me. I’ll look after you.

• You deserve to be treated with respect and care, and it’s not your fault some of the people around you didn’t do that.

• People have left you but not because of you. People may leave you but you have what it takes to be fine on your own now.

• Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak, or crazy, or too much.

• It’s splendid to be queer. Magnificent even.

• Your big personality can be irritating to some, but their irritation is their responsibility, not yours.

• You are wonderful, as perfectly imperfect as you are.

Oof. Writing that broke my heart a little but I can feel warmth seeping in through the cracks, softening my shoulders, melting regret. This is an evocative and nuanced exercise, and for myself and many others, deeply healing.

Regret is a marker of sorts: Look, right here’s a lesson! Find compassion for yourself, learn that lesson, apply it forward. Growth is always possible, friends, even in the darkest of seasons.