(imagine this as a spoken word piece)
Shake hands, nod, smile pleasantries, and then, sit.
Face to face, shoulders and backs aligned, here we go, your eyes on mine, my eyes on yours.
Breathing nervously, breathing fast, breathing slower. Ever so aware, of my breath, of my pulse, of my very own heart’s rhythm…and now yours.
Nervous twitches in and of my mouth, fidgeting fingers, still ever so aware of my breathing…and now yours.
I feel the soft and slightly scratchy material of my retail bought “grandma sweater”. I wore in layers. For style, for comfort, for security. While holding on to the sweater sleeves as if my dear life depended on it, your piercing gaze was effecting me in more ways than one.
I felt as if you were seeing all of me, by looking into my eyes. In my mind’s eye, I rewound until you saw me as a mere child, creating appetizing mud pies and unbeknownst to my parents, making Barbies…kiss. You saw adolescent Miranda, in all her frizzy haired, pimply skinned, out-dated hand me down clothes, prepubescent glory. You saw my adult triumphs and my soul shattering weaknesses. You saw me fall, and then you saw me stand.
With a tear in my eye, and a shiny, skinned knee, I meet your gaze. Ever so aware of my breathing…and now yours.
I see the hidden stress just barely visible on your face. It’s in your expression, your posture, your breath. You’ve stayed strong for one day too many. No one really looks into your eyes anymore. Our society has made it taboo. Well, I’m looking now. Really looking. I see anguish. I see longing. I see need, and I see relief. I breathe in my awareness, and I breathe out yours. I see how the wind just barely tickles your hair into your face. You debate on whether or not to acknowledge it. In another lifetime, another moment in time, I would have had no second thoughts. I’d have lovingly replaced the hair back into its place, but we aren’t to touch, simply look… and breathe.
I see your face alight in laughter. I see joy, passion, and kindness. I sense your strengths, and I feel your worries. You’re a strong warrior, but even warriors need their wounds tended to and their cups refilled.
With dampened rag in hand, and a pitcher for your soul, I see you.
So very aware of my breathing…and now yours.