The Worth Of Knowing

I stumble to a stop in the middle of the field and nearly collapse to the ground. I look over my shoulder and see you strolling toward me with a gentle, knowing look in your eyes.

At first I think this is perfect, I’m exhausted from my antics of trying to get you to leave me and I need to rest. I will do that and you will eventually become bored and leave.

But then I remember that I’ve tried ignoring you (among many other things) before to no avail.

I sigh.

Since you haven’t stopped following me this far there’s little chance of you leaving now.

I am surprised that this thought comforts me.

I look to the horizon. I allow myself to rest cross-legged in the grass, leaning forward with my chin in my hands. I realize I can both take my time to catch my breath and marvel at this new found ease of knowing you’re not going to leave.

Minutes string together into 10, 15 minutes, maybe longer – I don’t know. I just know that every time I glance over you’re there a couple yards away sitting in the grass as if it was what you did every afternoon – as if this was your field and this was your favorite spot to enjoy it’s quiet beauty.

I shake my head not understanding you, but also feeling that knowing you are near is all I really need to understand right now.

A breeze brushes against my cheek and I hear the buzz of a bee flitting among the red clovers nearby.

From this quiet spot, I now begin to sense that my antics to get rid of you, surprise you, impress you, or get any sort of influence over your presence and apparent love for me were quite absurd. I had explained my odd behavior away by telling myself “I couldn’t trust you,” “you weren’t safe,” or at least “you were naïve to who I really am.”

But after awhile it became clear that I did not have the power to displease you to the point of you leaving.

My manipulation to try to make you rely on me and need me had been of no avail either.

I didn’t have control over the persistence of your pursuit of me or the amount of your love for me. And fighting that was what had caused me to run myself to exhaustion and to this place in the middle of nowhere.

A bee buzzes near me. I hold my breath as it flies around my shoulder and on to the next patch of clovers.

And then it hits me: I don’t actually feel unsafe with you. In fact, I feel safer now then I have in a long time – maybe ever.

And that is what’s terrifying.

I don’t actually think you’re untrustworthy. The act of trusting feels risky.

I don’t really think you’re naïve about who I am. The thought of being fully known makes me uneasy.

I don’t truly think you’ll harm me. The vulnerability of receiving love feels dangerous.

With a groan, I place my face in my hands.

I want to yell. I want to be mad at you. That’s so much easier. It’s so much easier to accuse you than to let you love me.

Instinctively, my fists clench and I look up at you. You meet my eyes with your gentle, knowing gaze.

I feel myself fall apart.

In a moment you are there gathering me up.

“It will take too long,” I say through tears, “I’m so broken.”

“I’m not leaving,” you say.

And you stay.