I watch you in the distance, the square of your shoulders rounded and bent from worry, from bone-deep despair. I watch the storm clouds gather and I ache to take that worry away. Some hours I can do nothing but observe. But I am there. I observe. I watch, when I can do little else.
(AKA, Why Tinies Shouldn't Dance...on typical dance balls, at least. Here, Darth Penny stretches to the max to try to groove.)
In all the chaos of whirlwind change, you are the rock, obdurate, seemingly eternal. I know that others think so; I also know what they think matters little to either of us. For rock erodes; the strongest stone gives way for the smallest stream. And you are not in the path of the rill, stitched erratically in silver thread across the expanse of untrammeled green. No, you are the unceasing stubborn cliff-face, turned blind to the torrent of salt and waves.
(Ex-Duke? Peccable, Mssr. Podruly...made of prims.)
It breaks you down, I see that. Bit by bit, gold veins lacing glassine quartz, strong sturdy hornblende that glitters in its own right. Too much, too quickly, the storm lowering, the rain lashing you along with the beat of the waves, and you disintegrate at a touch. I know this. I see this. I cannot stop it.
(I admit, I adore this picture [click for the larger version]. Talk about being in the right place at the right time...here, Miss Neome looks over the railing at Solange's Ornament Hunt last December, and shows off Mr. Nix Sands' Caledon Tartan eyes to marvelous advantage.)
In a sense, this is nature's way, and I am ever nature's acolyte, in a diffident sense. The words of Kali Ma, I destroy to create, ring through me, watching. For there is loss, yes; there is pain, yes; there is destruction, yes. But I must believe that for every loss, there is something gained; for every pain, there is pain's relief, waiting; for destruction, there is reconfiguration.
(I'm not sure I remember who all came to the Australia Day celebration thrown by Sir Edward Pearse and Lady Christine McAllister-Pearse...I think it's [from the left] Roy Smashcan, Dr. Mason's new daughter, Mi...not Minako...Mi...Me...something, argh...then-Mr. Mossaveno Tenk, before he declared rulership over New Babbage, and Dr. Mason behind them; then Mr. Fawkes Allen, testing out the joints on the new Cecil model automaton; then Miss Neome being slothful on the green [and yes, that's the distinctive pattern of moss growing in the sloth's fur]; then a random cockatoo, me in Bare Rose's latest "is it a kimono?" offering, with Edward's cork-bedecked sunhat; and....ack, I can't think, Miss Weatherwax? Miss Davies? I can't remember.)
But no one said it would be easy. And I watch you, enduring, suffering, faltering on occasion, because no one is strong all the time. I do my best to heed your words, I try to keep myself open, I try to let those around me know when I am weak, when I suffer, when I need help. I watch you fighting, I watch you at the same crossroads, over and again, and I admit: I do everything in my power to keep you from giving in.
(It's too cold to be spring. Besides, I miss my snowmen. I even miss the Vorpal Snow Bunny attacking them.)
It rarely feels like enough. But it is all I can do. And in those rare moments when the stormclouds lift, and the seas calm, and I see you shine...I know I'd do it all again.
(What the other snowman was shrieking about...Snowthulhu.)
Because I love you, and I do not love only when it's sunny, I do not love only when it's spring. I love through storm and fury, through bitter winter that has forgotten all light and life. I did not choose you because you were comfortable. I did not choose anyone because they were comfortable.
(Finally, I've meant to mention this for a while now: not in time for the holidays unfortunately, but I do have my House Slippers out and fully functional. They are soft, sturdy, and come equipped with a miniature orange tree, a smokeless fireplace [for warmth], steps up to the carpeted mini-room, and working doors! Only fifty Linden at Kartiny, upstairs from Autogenic in Penzance.)
I admit, I am not easy to love either. As much as I am learning to root, to stand in place and stand fast, I still flitter, I still flit. I no longer give in at a compliment, at an amused glance, at a touch, and I am told this is no bad thing. But even if it's not to others, my attention frequently drifts. I am dazzled by so many things in the vastness of the multiverse, and fascinated by so much...I do not always keep my focus, it is hard for me. But through it all, my distraction, yours, my pain and yours, my joy and yours, I still love. That I love you is the one thing that never changes. My wandering attention always finds you, over and again.
(I have to humbly thank Winter Ventura for her door script assistance and Fawkes Allen and Edward Pearse for building suggestions. I couldn't have done it without you guys.)