Damsels & Werewolves

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I tell the director. It’s Budapest 1989, and we’re on the set of Howling V. This is director number two, and I don’t think he’s read the script. “I’m the werewolf,” I point out. He wants me to run screaming down a tunnel under the Danube River, and by this time, my alter-ego (Mike, from the SFX department, wearing a hairy wolf costume) has killed half the cast. Yes, I’m blonde. Yes, I’m wearing a pink sweater. And no, I’m not a damsel in distress. Wrong movie, dude.

It happens. We get caught in an old story, and it’s hard to wrest ourselves out of it. I remember running down a dark street in my nightgown, chased by the man I lived with, wondering how I could change the channel.

Patience. Compassion for falling for that old programming again (and again and again and again). Perseverance. Determination. 

I woke up the other day with these words in my mouth: I am precious and worth protecting.

I walked around with this thought awhile. Wasn’t thrilled with the word precious, which is a little shop-worn, so I cracked open a thesaurus. And found Beloved. Which is what Habibi means. Which is my home. I live inside Beloved. Because I am. And so are you.

I don’t know how long I’ll remember these words, but for now, I take a little more care with myself. Clean the fans so my lungs don’t inhale god-knows-what. Check the oil and impeller filter to please the engine. Grab shades to protect the eyes, and a hat for the face even if I’m just snicking laundry off the lifelines. Eat. Hydrate. Lotion face and feet and hands. Turn off the phone. Rest. Meditate. Leave the marina before I kill the man running the nearby dredger all night long. (“It’s like they’re trying to run us out of here,” complained a dock-mate this morning.)

Tropical Storm Alvin is winding down, and I am citied out. Doesn’t take much before I’m done, though running water sure is nice. And my kind neighbor lets me use his wi-fi. But the open ocean is calling again. Hear it? Sounds like Love.