ephorize
“Winter, summer, happiness, and pain; Giving, appearing, disappearing; Non-permanent, all of them; Just try to tolerate.”
Dear Anias,
Two sticks of incense is what it took for me to drop in and drift away. Cold floorboards. A draft from the skylight. I swept twice and the ground felt smooth and clean. I stretched my toes past the blanket's edges and set the small sandbag over my chest. Lengthwise down the strip of my sternum.
Over the heart.
Dinner was beet hummus with quinoa, arugula, and veggies. I wanted lentils, though was too lazy to open the can. I had a lemon cake slice at the cafe, and today, I will go and order another. The coffee is not strong enough. I am sitting and sipping my concoction at home. Clara says two espresso shots are in the wee cup inside her percolator. Or did she say four?
It's how the Italians measure it, she'd said.
It's red, the percolator, and I will carry it with me forever as I travel. The glass coffee grinder, too, though I cannot figure out how to use it. I ground my beans once, and I could not get it to work on the second try. I will try again at some point. It is nice to look at the two items side by side. The metal and glass. The red and black. I kept the grinder out to remind me what I could not do.
I still feel full from my meal last night, though nothing was in it to cause disruption. No cheese or dark meat. I want a slice of baked sourdough with burrata and prosciutto. I will order that tomorrow when I am out in town. At the little cafe.
Mariela would not budge in her disposition until the final hour of my visit. I sat at the window where the dried flowers decorated the bench. It was not a great choice, the light reflected onto my screen and was difficult to see. I did not move. I liked the warmth seeping in through the windowpanes.
She ignored me, as she usually does, in her dark jeans and striped shirt. She always wears the same outfit in varying colors. Her hair was scooped up in a short ponytail. She's pretty in an unattainable sort of way. Refrained. Subdued. Her eyes are dark and glitter and her nails are well-kept. She smells like something rich and sweet.
I want to be her friend.
She avoided eye contact and when I went in, she took a step back. I left it alone. Eventually, she looked up with her hands full of the beautiful ceramic dishes they sell, and that is when I ordered the lemon loaf and the latte. She pretended not to understand. I order the same thing every time I am there. Citron cake and coffee.
I watched the sun move and when it had shifted to the opposite side of the window, I took my leave. I paid at the till and complimented her sweater. It was not a lie; she had very nice clothes.
Thank you, she'd said and smiled with her whole face.
This was when I asked for her name. And she asked for mine. I was so happy! I nearly skipped out of the cafe.
Clara had left me a voice memo that I had waited to listen to. Delayed gratification. I am learning the art of withholding. For most things, I give freely. Some things I hold back for myself. Like the voice memos. I would never listen in a busy space. It's too crowded.
I walked to Farmers to pay my bill. The machine was down the last time I was there, and they are closed each time I return to pay with cash. Twice now. You have to ask three times to be initiated. I shall go today.
I haven't felt like being with anyone. The sunset was a little past seven and I finished work and decided I'd go into a meditation instead of reading. Krishna keeps calling me because we are discussing The Bhagavad Gita on March 27th. I'll get into that with Him this weekend.
He is hideous, Krishna. I saw him walking the other evening and my entire body lit up like an electric wand. I saw him with my third eye, not my physical eyes, as I walked under a tree by the canal. The fountain is turned off at sunset. Water does not run in the dark.
His magnificence is striking. I felt my bowels slacken and stuck my hand onto the cold stone ruins I'd been walking alongside. Georgina says the Red Man is a response to coming out of your experience and entering someone else's.
Is Krishna the Red Man?
This is the question I will bring to my meditation tonight.
Back to where I was eight hours ago. At midnight I lay down and took two Yoga Nidra classes. I extended my arms overhead to stretch my side body and sent my breath to move up and down my sides.
Orange light came to me, a playful and punctuated color. It was small and hard and round. It moved in a line that extended from my belly to the outside of my being. It did not shift from the forward and backward motion. I need this hard little beam when I am practicing inversions. Forearm stand and handstand I can hold for perhaps fifteen seconds without a wall.
That is the extent of my current scope of concentration.
As the orange ball moved, I took my attention elsewhere. I did not need to gaze on it; I could feel it was self-sufficient. I took my awareness to my third eye and soon, purple and white light appeared that connected to my browline and extended outwards in waves to the room and beyond my physical body. I understood that the light was extending to the outside world, past the walls and wooden beams.
What are you hungry for?
A strong voice beckoned from somewhere down below. I felt it rumble from the cool stone tiles.
I stayed with the sensation of the ground on my back, the hard earth supporting my head, wrists, hips, and heels.
I am hungry for food, I said.
But that did not feel right.
What are you hungry for?
My stomach growled.
I let the words leave my body and sent my inner eye to my abdomen, where the orange colors moved back and forth. I felt my limbs slacken and get heavier on the ground. My feet were cold where the blanket had left a little gap. My toes peeped out. I wished there were someone here to tuck me in. I lifted my heels and scooped the scarf's edges under my feet, sealing in the warmth. I used my hands to smooth the edges along my thighs and let them rest on my belly.
I wanted to feel his hands on my body. I wanted his warmth. I wanted to tuck my feet under his legs and set my head on his chest. I wanted to hear him say, come here, babe, as he pulled my arm across his chest.
What are you hungry for?
Connection. I am hungry for love and a sense of stability and belonging. That assurance comes from a mother's gaze or a lover's embrace.
I am hungry for touch. It is physical, yet not of me. It's a physical longing that will never be sated as easily as the demands of the biological body!
Photo source.
