THE INKWELL SOUL

Tag: #connection

  • The Art of Shutting Up

    I recently stumbled across a quote that hit me like a cold splash of water to the face. It asked : When was the last time you really listened – not just waiting for your turn to talk, or rehearsing what you’ll say next? My immediate, knee-jerk internal reaction? “Oh, I have a great point to make about that!”

    And there is it was. The irony. I was literally “rehearsing my reply” to a quote about how I shouldn’t be rehearsing my reply.

    It made me realize that for a long time, I haven’t been having conversations; I’ve been conducting tactical maneuvers. I’ve realized that most of us (myself very much included) don’t actually listen. We reload. While the other person is talking, we’re back in the kitchen of our minds, chopping up our own clever anecdotes, seasoning our counter-arguments, and waiting for that split-second gap in their breathing so we can serve our masterpiece.

    It’s exhausting. And honestly? It’s why so many of my “connections” have felt about as deep as a parking lot puddle.

    We have this frantic, itchy need to be the “fixer.” When a friend starts venting about their boss or their partner, my brain immediately shifts into IT-Support mode. I start building a three-point plan to solve their life. But I’ve come to realize that “fixing” is often just a polite way of saying, “Your discomfort is making me uncomfortable, so I’m going to give you a solution so we can talk about something happier.” True listening, the kind that actually builds trust, feels a lot more like holding a heavy box for someone. You don’t try to unpack it or tell them it’s not that heavy. You just stand there and hold it with them until they’re ready to put it down.

    I’ve been trying to experiment with this lately, and let me tell you – it’s awkward. There’s this thing called the “pregnant pause” that feels about ten years long when you’re used to constant chatter. But I’ve noticed something wild: when I resist the urge to jump in with a “Me too!” or a “You should try this” and I just… stay there? The other person usually sighs and says the real thing. The thing they were actually worried about. The stuff that was hiding behind the first layer of words.

    I’m learning to embrace the “W.A.I.T.” acronym: Why Am I Talking? It’s a humbling question to ask yourself mid-sentence. Usually, the answer is “to sound smart” or “to stop the silence.” Rarely is the answer “because this is absolutely vital for them to hear.”

    My goal now isn’t to be the most interesting person in the room, but the most present one. I want to be a vessel, not a megaphone. It means quieting the internal chatter, letting the “perfect” comeback die in my throat, and just being there. Because at the end of the day, people don’t really need my “brilliant” advice. They just need to know that for five minutes, they weren’t alone in the room.

  • An Ode to the Autumn Hunt (Dedicated to DP)

    The year’s grand cycle crests and begins its slow, golden decline. This is the Fall, not merely a season, but a spiritual transition – a collective drawing-in of breath before the great white silence of winter. There is a sense of purpose in the air, a final, vibrant burst of energy that makes the world feel intensely alive.

    The fields, once green and towering, now lie shorn and rich with the scent of turned earth, a testament to the farmer’s toil. Yet, it is in the woods where a different, more ancient ritual unfolds. It is here the hunter finds their sacred space.

    To speak of the hunt is to speak of patience, reverence, and a profound humility. It is not about the weapon, but the connection. To choose the bow is to choose the most intimate form of engagement, demanding an almost impossible closeness. This skill is not learned through books; it is etched into the soul by the whispers of the wind and the silent, waiting earth.

    The true work of the bow hunter is blending. It is a deliberate act of shedding the self, of becoming a stillness among the moving shadows. To witness the forest come alive is the reward – the silent diplomacy of the squirrels, the cautious passage of the deer, the fleeting moments of animal interaction that are rarely seen by the hurried eye. The hunter is not an intruder; they are a temporarily accepted fixture of the landscape, a sentient stump that the forest decides to ignore.

    This immersion fosters a deep, elemental appreciation for the circle of life. The sacredness of the hunt lies not in the final act, but in the long, quiet hours of being present. It is that understanding that life is sustained by life, a simple, undeniable truth often obscured in the modern world.

    And when the moment of harvest arrives, it is met with a gravity that transcends mere victory. A life has been given, and for that, there is profound gratitude. It is thanks for the nourishment that will sustain; thanks for the warmth of the hide; thanks for the reminder that we, too, are animals dependent on the generous bounty of the earth. This offering closes the circle, restoring the dignity of the animal and sanctifying the purpose of the hunter.

    This connection – this deep, humbling respect for the life that feeds your own – is a sacred legacy that many have lost. To be given a glimpse into this space is a gift, a chance to reclaim a vital, soulful understanding of our place in the natural order. It is a reminder that in the woods, the greatest harvest is not the game itself, but the renewed reverence for life, death, and the beautiful, continuous motion between them.

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  • The Weight of My Coin

    I am, indeed, the coin, holding within me the intricate dance of joy and sorrow, of profound connection and devastating absence. My life has been rich with different kinds of love, each right for the season it occupied. I’ve known partnership and companionship in marriages, and I honor those experiences and the unique love they brought into my life.

    In 2006, one side of my coin shimmered with an unbearable brightness: the discovery of my soulmate. This was a love so deep, so profound, it surely felt like destiny – a connection unlike any I had known. Those two years of marriage, though tragically brief, imprinted an experience of love that many only dream of. That was the blessing, the side of the coin etched with an exquisite beauty.

    Then, in 2009, the coin flipped with a force that shattered my world. The other side revealed itself, stark

    and brutal – the sudden, unthinkable loss that stripped away not just my husband, but a piece of my very being. That was the suffering, the profound grief that lingered long after the immediate shock faded. I bore witness to life’s capacity for both immeasurable gift and excruciating theft, all within the span of a few years.

    Now, as I navigate the dating world, a cancer survivor with the ghost of a potential recurrence whispering in the background, I feel the weight of that same coin in a new, acutely personal way. I carry the memory of that extraordinary love, a testament to my capacity for deep connection. This is the enduring strength, the resilience, the understanding of what truly profound intimacy feels like.

    Yet, alongside this richness, there’s the palpable fear of history repeating itself, not just for me, but for those I might allow into my heart. I’ve lived through the agony of losing the love of my life, and that pain was unbearable. The thought of inviting someone new into my world, only for them to potentially experience that same devastating loss if my cancer were to return and take me…. it’s a burden I honestly struggle with. How can I ask someone to risk that kind of heartbreak? How can I knowingly put them through the watching, the hoping, the ultimate grief, when I know precisely how soul-crushing that experience is? It’s a deeply protective instinct, this reluctance to inflict potential pain on another, especially when I’ve felt its full force myself.

    And yet, despite this overwhelming concern, I still yearn for it – that profound, all-consuming love again. The blessing of experiencing it once has shown me what’s possible, what truly enriches life. This isn’t a simple “two sides” scenario; it’s a dynamic, ever-present reality. My coin spins, sometimes showing the vibrant imprint of love found, sometimes the stark emptiness of love lost, and now, the profound vulnerability of daring to love again while acknowledging life’s inherent fragility. I am holding both sides of that coin, longing for connection while grappling with the very real cost it might exact on the heart of another.

  • Dating in Your 50’s: The Struggle is Real

    Dating in your 50’s. It’s not for the faint of heart, is it? It’s like trying to navigate a funhouse maze in the dark, with the added bonus of wondering if the person at the other end is actually a cardboard cutout with surprisingly good grammar. It’s less “meet-cute” and more “meet-cringe”, isn’t it? We’ve traded stolen glances across crowded rooms for swiping left or right on faces that may not belong to the person in the profile.

    Remember the thrill of meeting someone organically? The nervous excitement of a first encounter where you could gauge their vibe, their real vibe, not the curated, filtered version? There was a certain realness to it, a tangible connection before you even exchanged numbers. We met people at concerts, at classes, through friends… there was a tangible, human element to it. Now, we’re navigating a minefield of pixels and promises, trying to decipher if “outdoorsy” means “owns a tent” or “watches nature documentaries on Netflix.” It’s all swipes and super-likes, a digital cattle call where you’re simultaneously the buyer and the questionable merchandise.

    And let’s talk about the profiles, shall we? “Seeking my soulmate” (aren’t we all?), “Adventurous spirit” (translation: once went zip lining on vacation), “Looking for my partner in crime” (which, let’s be honest, could mean anything from one night flings to actual, you know, CRIME). Oh, and the ever-present “Good sense of humor” (which is highly subjective). You read them and think, “Wow, he sounds perfect!” You hit that little heart button, that virtual beacon of hope… and then, crickets. He’s witty, intelligent and his photos aren’t taken in the bathroom mirror. You send a message, a carefully crafted masterpiece of conventional charm. And then… silence. It’s like sending a message into the abyss, only to be met with the deafening silence of unrequited algorithms.

    Then, against all odds, you match with someone who seems promising. He’s kind, funny and seems genuinely interested. The conversation flows, the banter is witty, and you find yourself actually looking forward to checking your phone. It all flows like a well aged Merlot. But then the universe throws you a curve ball: He lives in “Upper Bumblefrack” which is approximately 300 miles and 3 time zones away!

    Ah, yes, the long-distance dilemma. We’re not in our 20’s anymore, ready to pack a bag and chase after infatuation. We’ve got our routines, roots, responsibilities, our homes, and our favorite side of the bed. The thought of packing it all up and starting over is… daunting. Is love worth a new zip code? Sometimes, maybe. The thought of uprooting our lives for a maybe, a what-if, is enough to make anyone reach for a bottle of wine and a good friend.

    It’s a lot. It’s frustrating, it’s funny, it’s occasionally heartbreaking, and it’s definitely an adventure. We’re a generation of strong, vibrant, and fabulous people who know what we want (mostly), and we’re not afraid to go out there and (try to) find it. We’re not going to settle for anything less than we deserve. So, we’ll keep swiping, keep messaging, keep laughing, and keep navigating this crazy, mixed-up world of 50-something dating.

    Keep holding out hope that somewhere out there, amidst the digital chaos, is someone who’s looking for the same thing we are: a real connection, a genuine partnership, and maybe, just maybe, someone who knows the difference between “your” and “you’re”.

  • Say No Words

    The silence speaks volumes, a language understood not by the ear, but by the heart. To ask for reassurance, yet to crave the absence of sound, is to seek solace in pure presence. “Tell me I will be ok, but say no words” – the yearning for comfort without the fragility of spoken promises. Perhaps words feel insufficient, prone to breaking under the weight of unspoken anxieties.

    To have one’s heart held safely in silence is a profound intimacy. No declarations needed, just the gentle, unwavering embrace of another’s care. “Hold my heart safely, but say no words” – a desire for a sanctuary built on trust, where vulnerability is met with quiet strength.

    Fears, those shadowy companions, often thrive in the echo chamber of our minds. To wish them kissed away in silence is to seek a balm that transcends verbal remedies. “Kiss away my fears, but say no words” – a longing for a touch that soothes the unseen wounds, a connection that whispers peace without uttering a sound.

    When the spirit feels fractured, words can sometimes feel like shards themselves, adding to the pain. “Hug tightly my broken spirit, but say no words” – the need for a closeness that mends through warmth and unwavering physical support, a silent acknowledgment of the fragility within.

    And finally, the deepest connection: “Touch my soul, but say no words.” This is a plea for understanding that goes beyond the surface, a communion that resonates in the quiet spaces between breaths. Its is a recognition that some truths are too profound for language, felt only in the silent meeting of spirits.

    These desires speak to a longing for a connection that transcends the limitations of language. A longing for the power of presence, touch, and the unspoken understanding that can bind two hearts together in moments of vulnerability. It is in the quiet space that true comfort and healing might be found.

  • The In-Between Space

    The world shimmered, not with visual distortion, but with an unseen energy that pulsed beneath the surface of things. I existed in that shimmering, that liminal space between knowledge and feeling, where the mind’s sharp edges blurred into the raw, untamed landscape of the heart.

    It was a primal intimacy, a conversation whispered between my soul and the rustling leaves, the murmuring stream, the sigh of the wind. The oak tree in my backyard wasn’t just an oak tree; it was a stoic guardian, its roots anchoring deep into the earth, mirroring my own yearning for stability. The rain wasn’t merely precipitation; it was a symphony of release, each drop a tiny drumbeat echoing the rhythm of my own tears.

    My emotions weren’t simply internal states; they were living entities, swirling around me like a kaleidoscope of butterflies, each one a fleeting expression of the world’s vibrant pulse. Joy wasn’t just a feeling; it was the sun warming my skin, the laughter of children echoing in the park, the sweet taste of a ripe strawberry bursting on my tongue. Grief wasn’t an abstract concept; it was the hallow ache in my chest, the weight of unshed tears, the lingering scent of rain on dry earth.

    This in-between space was where I truly lived, where the boundaries between self and other dissolved. I felt the heartbeat of the earth beneath my feet, the ancient wisdom of the mountains etched upon my soul. The whispers of the wind carried secrets, and the rustling leaves sang lullabies that soothed my restless spirit.

    It wasn’t always easy, this dance between knowing and feeling. The mind, with its insatiable hunger for logic and order, often struggled to reconcile with the heart’s wild untamed nature. But I had learned to navigate this terrain, to find a delicate balance between the two.

    In the quiet moments, when the world was hushed and still, I would close my eyes and listen. I would listen to the symphony of my own emotions, the whispers of the wind, the rustling of leaves, the steady beat of my own heart. And in that listening, I found a profound sense of peace, a connection to something larger than myself.

    This was my reality, a tapestry woven from the threads of knowledge and feeling, a world where the boundaries between self and other blurred, where emotions danced like fireflies in the twilight, and where the whispers of the wind carried the secrets of the universe. It was a world of primal intimacy, where I lived and breathed and felt the pulse of life in every fiber of my being.