Emotional distance tax.

Across the pond, the road, or the universe.

African flower beetle, in my palm, released moments later. Photo by Juozas Cernius.

Emotional distance tax. This is the toll when the people who have touched you deeply are perpetually far away – gently blown by the myriad of forces of life on earth: employment, immigration, family obligations…

At first, the threads from one’s heart and body and mind to another’s are radiant with fresh enthusiasm. The energy seems as vast as the ocean’s horizons, and the waves of spiritual bliss run strong. This is one of the delicious beauties of life.

Months pass, as they do, while moods swing and the connective tissues invariably fray. The once impenetrable fortress of passion begins to tilt. The grip on the memories is still tight, and the pang for making it tangible again is acute. We don’t give up so easily – not when we know how few and far between these amazing bonds really are and how much suffering is commonplace. We want to fix the loose ends. It seems worth the effort. After such a beautiful connection, it’s easy to ride the momentum even if it shows signs of slowing.

The repair work for the first few cracks is modest, even easy, accomplished with dutiful pleasure. Sweet missives act like mortar supporting a tower of mutual resolve, but fractures grow. The labor of love begins to churn like a creaky windmill, every rotation more and more cumbersome than the last. Memories transform into loops of frustration, outpacing the desire for reconciliation.

You find yourself salvaging the relics of a past era in a swamp of resentments. This is life, too. Surveying the dank muck of what we’ve gotten ourselves into. In the cycle of life, this is fertilizer for the next, richer crop of experience.

Pining for a conclusion that does not come, we are, at once, the taxed and tax collector.

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