It’s no surprise the French have 17 words for surrender. Hopeless, existential romantics either say nothing or too much.

Say less.

May my silence echo in your mouth where my name used to be. Or at least, that’s what I imagine hopelessly existential romantic French people say when they’re dreapeau blanc-ing, white flagging on someone they might’ve loved once.

When I told you two years ago, I surrender all, all to these my blessed savior, I surrender all…I knew it was a risk but I meant it because I saw no other way to effort my prayers into existence. I don’t grovel, chase, chastise and I hate fighting. Sometimes I wish I was more fight and less flight, freeze but that’s a different story.

At first I thought about coming….to tell you 17 different ways of just how serious I was, am, is about letting go and letting you, let them is spiritual bypass by the way…but that would be too many words.

Charles is teaching me about secure attachment. It’s something we’ve both really had to work at. Our love story began with kidnapping, blood, tears, exhaustion, anxiety, heartbreak, biting, frustration, barking, howling, and so much shit; like wading in actual puddles.

I once foolishly thought getting a puppy would be all cuddles, kisses and calming kindness. HA! I told a friend it was more akin to domestic violence…at least in the beginning. Is that every great love story? Does it always have to hurt first?

Now he follows me around the house all day and gets offended when I dare to close the bathroom door. Even after years of spending every night and nearly every day all day together, he still goes crazy when he sees me. Imagine being loved like that? If I’m being honest, it’s a little overwhelming. Love me securely but gently.

I say it all the time…be gentle baby boy, gentle, gentle, gentle!

Puppy: furry beast with mommy/daddy/commitment issues (aka trauma) who will likely never go to therapy but is oh so charming, cuddly and cute.

All that to say, secure attachment seems entirely unnecessary, unless you’re a tree. Rootless humans grow like air plants tossed in whatever direction the wind happens to be blowing. Eventually we all wither but it does seem those with the deepest access to consistent nourishment become something meaningfully recognizable before they die.

And yet, we foolishly persist in wander, wonder and want. Maybe I can grow here? Or here? Or here?

Repeatedly repotted plants…overwatered, underfed, misunderstood, discarded.

Since death is inevitable there’s no point in playing the energetic chess game of try to guess the mood of the universe so you can raise your vibration, thrust your vagus nerve in trust and win the next cool prize from your vision board that will someday be cremated along with you and your puppy.

Surrender, in all 17 of its permutations, is absolute freedom.

So, like I said two many years ago, I’m all yours.