A Return To The Mean

I am a woman of singular virtues.   In each sphere of my life, I possess one particular gift.  It may not be enough to make me exceptional or even interesting, but such a constitutional makeup has, in the long run, kept me safe.   My only physical gift is that of endurance.  I can run and run and run and run till the world finally makes sense again.   My gift in the realm of emotions -- an area the never fails to bewilder and fluster me and turn what I know inside out and upside down -- is the uncanny ability to return to the mean.  Sometimes this return is a stop-motion trickle of rivulets ultimately accumulating into a substantive pool and sometimes it is a head-jerking snap back into place -- but no matter its pace, there is always the return.  My emotional compass may often lead me to wander in a despondent wilderness, but it is also why, in the end, I am never lost.  I always know deep down I will find my way back, that I will return to the mean:  I will come home.  

The mean is neither happy nor unhappy.  It is not painful nor is it exuberant.  Not orange, nor blue.   Sounds a bit like purgatory, but shares just as many characteristics with the definition of nirvana.   It is a holding pattern.  It is refuge.  It is safe.  

The mean is not a place to live.  But, I do often forget, that it is a place to catch my breath.  A ramshackle haven.  Somewhere for the wicked, the worried and the weary to rest and regroup.  

Too long in the mean leads to hardening at the edges, a calcification of the soul.   As such, an imperfect defense from the rawness that ensues from wandering out, bounding up and down the orders of magnitude.  

But the mean keeps me safe.   It lets me survive.   It makes hope possible.   

It is what proves that I can take care of myself.