There is a cloak that lifts off of me when I am on my own. It’s the same kind of sigh that is released in the house when left to my own energetic space. The vortex that I lovingly call my husband is a weight that can sometimes cause a droop in spirit and a dimming of my soul.

While, naturally, one might take such a comment as a negative statement or a personal one if shared with him directly, the intention is an awareness rather than a judgment.

When faced with a realization that all of our thoughts and states of mind are of our own choosing, then the onus of responsibility returns to the self. Not always a happy reflection to be faced with, surely. Yet, I never stray far from the path of personal growth even when I might want to fly off it or jump onto another one in avoidance or denial.

A recent argument unleashed an inner rage inside of me for not being appreciated, heard nor seen. Although my words were pounded with frustration into an armchair and spewed out with gritted teeth to hold in the fiery flames that threatened to unhinge me, these core feelings were the foundation that had been built up to fuel the anger and hide the pain.

Being human, I desperately wanted to blame the man who is a whirlwind of untethered emotions, free-flowing ideas, and unorganized thoughts. Still, I do to some degree–he is the vortex, after all. Yet, there is also that reminder of the choice. I chose to let the frustration brew rather than address it, share it, or even just let it go. Instead, I buried it. But, like storms are known to do, the earth shifts and the momentarily forgotten metaphorical axe handle begins to rise to the surface, waiting for a hand to pull it back out.

The truth is that the cloak he provides also gives me warmth and the weight keeps me grounded in a safe and secure space. Even though it feels lighter to have moments to rest from it, if my light is dimming then that is of my doing by allowing it to be so.

We recently discussed my not finishing my novel, started nearly 40 years ago. My defense was and still is that I am not defined by it. My husband believes that it is part of my identity because I talk about it and share its storyline with others. However, this has only been true for the past few years. Instead, I prefer to identify as a writer. I write every day. Some days it is a short entry on my journal. Some days it is a blog post or my monthly newsletter. Some days it is paragraphs or pages on the five different manuscripts I am actively working on, including the book that has transformed in purpose since its conception my first year of college. My writing has actually been shared in the world through academic journals, online articles for magazines, my own platform, and three self-published books.

Yet, because a stronger force than me questioned my integrity or right to call myself a writer, for really it was a judgment on my identity, then it fed into a thread of suffering, frustration and harm in an outburst on a completely different subject. It doesn’t mean I am not justified in my stance, just that perhaps I could have chosen to not let the lava bubble to the surface without more reflection.

My only defense in such a case is that we have not had much time apart from each other lately. Healthy awareness of this feeling creates deeper understanding for both of us. I need to feel the pressure lift and allow myself to breathe in my own space and timing. Also, absence does often make the heart grow fonder so that my desire to be appreciated, heard and seen actually has more of a chance to be expressed.

So, I continue to choose to be wrapped in the cloak of warmth and share the heavy magnetic energy that grounds me. It makes life full and my soul complete.

Still, a little pause for tranquility never hurts.

~T 🔥🐉♋️