The Price of my Choice

Daily writing prompt

What does freedom mean to you?

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A familiar “bing” announces that the seatbelt sign has been turned off, and the flight to the second city on my journey is complete. I take myself out of airplane mode, and give my phone the same treatment. “Airplane mode” isn’t a button that normally makes my phone buzz, and it takes me a minute to realize I’m already getting message notifications. Just like that, I have a few meetups confirmed before I’ve left the plane. My main intent behind being here is getting a chance to see Camilla again, and connecting with others here is more opportunistic than anything. Ah, the wonderful exploits of bachelorhood.

Opportunity seems to be the theme, because another windfall arrives through my job. My company is based out of my hometown, and they’re paying to fly in anyone who wants to attend. Calendar dates line up with my planned trip to my next leg, so I might get a free trip out of the deal. “Closed mouths don’t get fed” is a mantra I’ve come to live by, and speaking up awards me with a free flight to the third city on my journey. The only “price” is a short layover in my hometown on the way.

With as many itineraries as I’ve built in the last few months, this one comes together almost instantly. My dad’s generous enough to offer me some space to put my feet up during my brief stay. Travel around town will be trivial, since my car is still there. A hiatus from meeting new people seems a small enough price to pay for leaving this town early. Details all are double-checked, and I move the cursor over to confirm the trip.

And I break down crying.

Little details come crashing in, and I’m pulled down into an ocean of pain. My journey is going to bring me within a stone’s throw of so many painful spots: the place where I met my ex-wife, the first home we bought together, the “forever home” where they left me, my friend’s house where I took shelter afterwards, all of it. I try to comfort myself with a reminder that I’ll get to see my family.

Visiting my family seems great at first glance, and then I remember my old dog. “Old” in both senses of the word: former, and very senior. When I left on my journey, her staying with me wasn’t going to benefit either of us. So, I chose to leave her behind. Chose to. Just like I chose to date Mikayla after I restarted my life, just like I chose to foster a relationship with her, and just like I chose to walk away when I saw her falling in love with another man. It was as much of a choice as choosing to leave behind everything that reminded me of my marriage, choosing to store the few things I cared about, and choosing to move downtown, and choosing to explore my life outside of that state. All of it is as much my choice as it is to visit my hometown again.

“Your price: free”

Mocking words on the company booking site blur to streaks of light and color with every sob, and turn back into print as I blink my eyes clear. Gasping as I breathe, I’m drowning in my pain. I cough as I inhale my ocean of tears, desperate for a breath of peaceful air. Every time I surface, I get another glimpse of that wreck of a life I left behind, and then those deep currents of emotion pull me back under.

Divorce is a horrible storm, and agony blew everything apart. My old friends could help me stay afloat, but I couldn’t just drift through the rest of my life. A world of possibility was open to me, and I was free to pursue it. Rather than waiting to be pulled out of my pain, I set off into the unknown. Only when I get discouraged, only when I think of turning back, do I see how far I’ve come.

Nothing about this business trip is mandatory, and I won’t face any backlash for not going. Whether or not I go is entirely up to me, and I’m free to choose as I please. There’s a substantial benefit to going, and I need time to think on it. Surfacing from my pain, my breathing evens and I weigh the decision.

Full recovery is a long way off, yet. It’s well beyond the horizon and out of my view, and my hometown feels so very close. Promises of opportunity in my hometown sing their siren song. I should foster a closer connection with my coworkers, they say. I should take advantage of the opportunity to see Camilla. I should try to see my old dog one more time, because it may be my last. All of it is luring me to return to my hometown.

Then that ocean of emotion swells as some great creature moves unseen, lying in ambush for me when I go back. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe I’m fearing things simply because they could be there, but I have a sense there’s more to it. Returning to my was-home scares me, and that’s the simple truth of it.

“I’m sorry,” begins my message to my dad, “I can’t come back there yet.”

Can’t?

I stare at the message for a moment. Ability isn’t the question: I can go back, I can step back into that pain, I can risk backsliding into an old lifestyle, and I can endure all of that in the name of saving a little bit of money. Selecting what I want is what matters here. Do I want to return now, when I’m still working my way out of that wreckage?

Decisions before have been relatively easy, but this one is unclear. Most of the challenge comes from how unprepared I was for the choice; I give myself the space to think. Slow feet beat at the pavement, as each thought beats at those depths to stay afloat. My body is on autopilot, cool composure on the surface as I turn my thoughts inward. Panic makes me want to slap away those feelings, and only focus on not getting lost in the pain.

I imagine not going. I let my body explore the feelings around staying in this city, and I feel a fluttering of anticipation for what that may bring. Maybe I meet someone, maybe I discover something. This city may not thrill me, but it certainly is beautiful, and looking around seems to make my muscles relax. As I think on missing the work event, I feel a small knot form in my stomach. It’s the kind of feeling I would have if I missed out on a free meal: a minor disappointment more than genuine pain.

I imagine going. I let my mind explore landing in my hometown, and my limbs fill with lead. My stomach knots and cramps at the lost opportunity of staying. Thoughts of the scenery in my hometown bring sensations of discomfort, and resentment. A scowl forms on my face as I imagine looking at that pathetic city. The work party would be pleasant, but in the way it would be to shelter from a hurricane. It’s more a sensation of escaped pain than of genuine joy.

Each turn around gives me more clarity, and the feelings stronger. A new message to my dad replaces the old one: “I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t want to come back there yet.” Maybe it’s not the right choice to avoid that place, but it feels like the correct one. A knot in my shoulders releases as I cancel my flight in, a second as I cancel the hotel, and a weight completely lifts as I cancel my flight out.

More time exploring is what I need right now. Right this moment, I want to continue my journey to find my safe harbor: my home. When the storm settles, I’ll return to salvage what I can. New friends will help keep me from sinking, and calm will help me to navigate that agony unscathed. Escape from whatever waits for me back there is unlikely in my current state.

Maybe whatever was hidden beneath the depths of my emotion will still hurt me, but my odds are much better after my circumstances improve. With that realization, I turn my back on my hometown with a sense of finality. My journey continues away, and onwards. As I do, a feeling of rightness sets in.

I’m embracing the freedom I’m exercising in making my choice, and why I’m doing it: I’m not going back to my hometown, even though it would be financially beneficial to do so. I’m continuing on my journey because I’m afraid of the emotional damage I’ll find there. I’m doing all of this even though it’s going to be more financially expensive.

“Take what you want, and pay for it,” and I do just that. All of this is to address my needs, to do what is good for me, and I do so with a clear mind. I’ll bear the extra financial burden, and I’ll risk missing out on what I would if I went back. Staying away has a cost, but it’s the lesser of the two, so I’ll choose it.

Because that’s the price of my choice.

Someone Who Understands

Each step is a word, every glance punctuates an idea, and the movement projects the tone. Meiru’s pace is deliberate, a learned feline smoothness to their gait. Shoppers pass the other way, eyes asking permission to push their way down the cramped path. Unspoken questions are coded in their movements, and Meiru ignores them as she makes her own declaration: I am walking this way. A steady wave parts in front of her. Her easy gait never asks too much from anyone, but it offers no room for debate.

Meiru’s attention turns to the pleasant murmur of conversation in the bazaar. Couples at food stands discuss shopping lists, and Meiru hears a woman explain what they need to their wife. Jewelry gleams as it’s studied by a group of friends, and their debate over fashion audible through the crowd. Silent conversation of body language lies underneath the chatter, and over the top are the hues.

A warm, yellow glow of joy radiates from the woman at a food stand, brightness flickering in time to her voice. Vegetables and sundries cast odd shadows in the flicking light. Warmth from the light can almost be felt, and Meiru can feel a smile in her eyes. She twists to work past the group of friends, and notices a hue in her periphery. Pink, almost black, flashes in time to one of the friends attempting to defuse the debate turned argument.

Eyes of passerby flick towards the group as the exchange grows in volume, curiosity in the onlookers’ gaze. Yellow fades away from the woman on the other side of the pathway as her eyes fill with concern at the burning hue. Pink, Meiru thinks, is never a good omen.

She’s worried about looking like she’s staring, and grabs the first thing in reach. Her hands turn over a vase Meiru pretends to examine while her attention is on the group. A small feeling of solidarity comes with every flash of color. It’s been less than a year since Meiru found her vision, and the novelty of the hues has yet to fade.

A man fidgets with his colorful jacket as he lingers on the edge of speaking, the pink from him more sensed than seen. It really is quite a nice vase, Meiru thinks, as it glimmers in the green light of love flickering in time from the man speaking next to her. The man’s partner smiles, the green glow sparkling in their eyes. Less than a year has passed since Meiru gained the ability to see hues, and the lights still captivate her.

Carefully placing the vase back in its display, she thanks the vendor. Pottery in vibrant glosses and smooth satins reflect the flash of yellow radiating from her. It’s almost time for her meeting, and she doesn’t want to be late. Pacing slightly more hurried than before, Meiru works through the crowd to the meeting place. Early as she is, they’re already there. She picks at her striped, flowing clothes, feeling annoyed.

The man crosses his arms, his tight-fitting jacket drawing tight, “if your goal was to piss me off, you’re doing a great job of it.” He says, and Meiru can hear anger. Light doesn’t come from him, but she thinks he’s in a brown mood today. “I can’t stand crowds, and the stables charged a fortune for storing my carriage.”

Definitely brown. Light isn’t coming off him, but brown was only ever easy for her to see with those she knew well. Maybe he can’t see hues, but it’s not something she could just ask. “Can you see the colors?” she’d ask people after her talent formed.

“Of course!” they’d say, “I’m not colorblind.” People who didn’t know weren’t aware they didn’t know. After a while, she came to recognize when others had the ability. Emotionally charged moments were when it was easiest to see the hues, as those with the vision worked their abilities. Discussion around how someone gained their vision was almost guaranteed to come with blindingly bright hues.

She thought about leaving the negotiation with the man right then and there. Certainly nobody who reacted this way could possibly see the hues, but it wasn’t Meiru’s way to give up so easily. “I’m sorry, how about you tell me a little about yourself?” Pink light flashes across his face as she speaks, and Meiru sees something change in his eyes.

“Crowded places work me up, I don’t normally meet like this. I’m Emlin.” He reaches out to exchange the customary greeting, and she catches a glimpse of a metallic bracelet. Mist fills her eyes, and she chokes on her breath for a moment as she thinks back to the last time she saw a bracelet like that, when she learned how to see the hues.

It was sunny that day.

Fall sunlight offered a cheer that mocked her, and left her before she got up. A broken carriage to her back, the pounding hooves fading into the distance, a scorch mark on the seat from the night star, an empty seat, the bracelet, and so, so much blood. She doesn’t remember what her sobbing sounded like, she lost her voice long before her hearing returned.

Her throat lets out a jagged breath as she stares at his extended hand. Her eyes catch the brand on the back of his palm, a scar shaped like sigil. A sigil, but not one that matches that shattered wagon or her the brand on her hand. “Don’t mind the scar,” he says, a turquoise light growing to match the pain in his voice, “that scar is… a conversation we haven’t had yet.”

Inwardly, she smiles as apprehension drains away. Something in her gut unclenches as she returns the greeting. Relief pours into her. Finally, someone is looking for the same thing, someone who sees the hues of emotion behind words in the same way she does, someone who endured the same loss she did.

Someone who understands.

Afterword:

Following my “big moment,” I discovered I had a radically different perspective of what was important to me. Expressing my feelings took on a different pattern, and it’s a pattern I’ve seen in others. When I notice someone who communicates in this same way, I try to ask probing questions to see if they’ve had a big moment, too. So far, every one of them has.

It’s a moment when who I was no longer “worked.” The person who I was couldn’t survive, and I had to challenge the very core of my being. It was agonizing, but the pain didn’t end until after the change happened. Change, or perish. A handful of my family members have been through an experience like this. One of them shared their experience with me many years ago, and I now see it for what it was.

I seem to have a knack for recognizing it in people I meet, including my friend who survived cancer. It’s a trait I’ve come to value, if only for the comradery I feel with those who also thrive after their big moment. Changing deliberately in this way doesn’t seem possible, and I’ve noticed that people who haven’t had their experience can’t identify it at all.

I’m so pleased that I’ve become who I am, and I’m so grateful to everyone in the process. That includes you, dear reader, thank you for reading.

Change is Inevitable

Each press of his hands molds and shapes the form. Slowly, the sculptor’s work changes. Palms dip down in the cup of water, and he spreads it gently over his work area. Rigid white shifts to a dark and workable grey. Eyes full of focus and thought examine in the sculpture, assessing his work.

Crude and rough, some pieces of his experience and work are little more than the original material. Other places have been given more care by the sculptor, and details are so fine they are more sensed than seen. His eyes trace along, following the contours, and then they drift to the emptiness next to it. Countless hours were spent repairing the damage from that violent tear, and his thoughts are constantly drawn back to it.

Just another thing, now: one of the many changes that have left an impression. Places here and there have been shaped by some chance encounter with another, their mark incorporated into the whole work. Others places were shaped more deliberately. Either the sculptor’s own thoughts and ideas formed some part, or something he heard inspired the change. A critic offers their input, and he thinks on the merits before starting to work. His palm rests with the tool just above the surface, and then he pauses.

Changing his form for another isn’t a small choice. They’re not asking much, but it’s not just the change itself that’s the issue. Every contour, line, edge, and detail has to be integrated. Incorporating this change will take a long time, and it may never feel natural. Changes like this rarely stay recognizable, and become lost in the attempts to blend them in.

Following up on that alteration will be the real challenge, because he doesn’t truly believe it will be a natural part of his form. And, without that belief, it can’t. This one alteration will always be out of place: flats among curves, lines amongst shapes. Deliberation is over, he won’t accept what the critic suggested. He casts aside the idea and starts to go back to what he was doing, but his attention catches on where he was going to change.

It’s different. Nothing there was supposed to be altered, and yet, it’s different. His eyes pore over every detail, and then he finds it: an imprint from his deliberation. Chair legs creak as he sits back with a humph. Nothing was ever meant to be changed and, even then, change still happened. Motion in his periphery catches his attention: water slowly evaporates, and dark grey areas turn white. Drops run down, and areas that were once too rigid to change become workable. Another area that was pliable shifts into a new form under its own weight.

Change is the only constant for the sculptor. He may be able to guide the details, but sculpting is a continuous process. Everything he’s worked on and experienced is constantly changing, and there’s nothing that can prevent it. With effort, he could keep some form resembling the original, but there’s no reason to do that. He’ll change, and he’ll keep changing for the better.

Members of his profession have wildly varying opinions of criticisms. A few stand by that it should always be ignored, and they should always stay true to their own desires as they shape and change. For the sculptor, the problem is different. Once, the sculptor used to listen to every change his collaborator suggested. A rough edge here should be removed, they’d say, and he’d work to remove it. Having this feature is virtuous, came their suggestion, and they needed more of these kinds of shapes so their own work could flourish. On and on it went.

Slowly, the sculptor’s work became unrecognizable. His entire work became a collection of roughly hewn together pieces suggested by his collaborator. After his collaborator grew angry for him asserting his own ideas, he lost interest in the work. He lost interest in his own work, and committed everything they had made to their collaborator. For a while, it worked, but the collaborator was never able to forgive him for their differences. They cut away their half of everything, and left.

Ugly and damaged, the sculptor had only a form that he hated. Every detail felt ugly, none of it was what he wanted. Furiously, he went to work. Building, learning how to create greater things, the improvement consumed him. Great cuts, massive additions, and intensive repairs brought his sculpture into an entirely new form. Love filled him for that form, and then came the criticisms.

Some were revulsed by seeing the cut, others thought there was nothing for anyone but the sculptor. Opinions piled in, and the sculptor listened. He would listen carefully, and ask questions when he could. Groups focused on improving these works would have suggestions, and the sculptor considered these as well. He listened, considered, and then weighed them against his own desires.

Love for his work from others would please him, but he truly needs the praise of one person: himself. So, he listens, and considers. Some people listen to every idea, constantly morphing, all the while resenting what they create. Others scorn the idea of accepting any suggestions from others, calling it weakness to change at all. All the while, they are confused why others are revolted by what their form grows to become. Neither feel like the right approach to the sculptor.

His answer is to listen, but consider. Any creator needs to respect their own vision, and love the changes they make. Inspiration doesn’t have to come from within, though, and some of the sculptor’s greatest changes have been inspired by others.

He sees what the two sides share. One side embraces change for change’s sake. While they neglect their own desires, as the sculptor once did, they resent the form they take on. Others scorn change, and refuse doing so deliberately. As they stay deaf to opinions and neglect their own changes, they grow resentful that their form is not admired by more. For the sculptor, it’s not the change he hates, but the neglect.

Because change is inevitable.