Keeping Company
In the twilight of summer, just before the rooster calls in the fall harvest, the mind drifts to the forthcoming season of endings—a time when we gather together around hearth to share the bounty and reunite as friends, family, and lovers before winter’s chill shutters our windows. A time to slow down from the racing of the city streets, to return to a more contemplative and introspective time. To count what we’ve accomplished, what we’ve seen, what we’ve gained, and what we’ve lost.
It’s here that we look forward to grey, cloudy skies and sweater weather. It’s a period where the scarecrows stand alone over bare fields without purpose—the birds have all departed for warmer climates and better feasts, leaving behind the raven and crows to caw in their murders within leafless trees and upon withering vines. It’s here, when Nature closes her arms to us, leaving Old Man Winter room to isolate us with chill and frost, that many find our darkest moments.
As the leaves explode in fiery crimsons, oranges, and sunny yellows before falling off, leaving whip-like fingers clawing at the sky, it’s most natural to fall into the habit of allowing our minds to drift into despair of isolation and loneliness and loss. In these moments, reaching out for others, for a shared touch, a shared meal, a shared experience, is both difficult and necessary.
When the world puts a price on your interactions with others, the engine of profit turns on the lubrication of your blood. Nothing is more dehumanizing than the isolation that you are merely the grease to their wheels. Real connection feels impossible when—having accepted yourself as not only the worker, but the product itself—others treat you accordingly in spite of being victims themselves. In the headlong rush westward, if you cannot fit into the box, you do not belong on the train. You are an anachronism—fruit left on the vine to rot and fall, fertilizing next year’s quarterly growth.
Of course, there is counseling—the religion of self-improvement. Seek out one of those priests, and you can find acceptance of self, proof against most of today’s ailments. However, the relationship between priest and parish is a stilted one, built on the separatedness between the shepherd and flock. Empathy? Yes, but always at arm’s length, letting you tread water in a dark, placid lake—ensuring you won’t drown, but not oft enough helping you alleviate the need to swim, though they stand on the pier.
There is space between the Counselor and the Commodity. A sliver of space that too few exercise to their capacity. That of the companion.
Companions, such as myself, are not merely women of the lamp, shadows in dark space waiting for fleeting desires. We’re shoulders, gamer buddies, hiking guides. We’re sommeliers of the finest spirits, curators of the most arcane experiences. We’re compatriots, and we’re listeners with open ears, open eyes, and open arms. Going where counselors fear to tread, and making connections that resonate within hearts, those like me are prized as confidants, Keepers of Secrets, and providers of intimate moments where breathing is the most sexual act performed.
This is why we do our work. This is why we’re more than the gossips imply. Remember: all blooms grow, nourished by what proper folks call rot.
