altitonant
“You’ve got to learn to leave the table when love’s no longer being served.”
Dear Anias,
I've avoided people who've kicked that temperamental child inside of me. Holding people at a distance delicately is something I'm very good at. Asking questions is one way I conceal myself. I make eye contact, yet don't let people in. That is a skill I am very proud of.
How to greet someone at the door and bring them inside without taking them to the main bedroom. You can come to the kitchen and dine with me. I will guide you through a house tour; I'm small, so it won't take much of your time. You won't even notice the door that's sealed tight. I don't need a key to guard it. Most don't see it. They walk by without glancing this way or that way. I adjust the color of the door depending on who I'm with.
For some people, bright colors are the way to blend. With other people, beige is the way to go. The door is currently a faint purple. The wood is peeling. The handle is gold. If you pushed it without turning the know, it would open.
I don't make it difficult for people; I'm just clever.
What you see creates a foundation for how hard you're willing to work. I look at everything. First with my eyes, then with my hands if permitted. I press my palm to that door, tempting splinters. It's my door, so it's easy, though if it were someone else, I'd do the same. I'd put my hand on it and push, just a little, to see how much it adjusts itself to pressure.
My door would wing wide open. I guess you could say I go with the flow.
Or with force, Ha!
This is my favorite part of the day, Anias. I have a wee coffee with heavy cream to my right and my book of poetry to my left. Today is an editing day. I will work for four hours, review my work, and do yoga. Perhaps a call with Amanda and my mother this evening. I'm reading your collection of short stories. So far, I'm a bit underwhelmed.
I wonder what you would say about my writing.
Friends and lovers have pressed themselves against that door, willing themselves inside. Mostly by accident! To receive the passions of the heart through a mishap is an odd thing. When someone tells you they love you in a time of need or when making love, it doesn't count. There is a space between suffering and joy where love can sit and declare itself.
I've learned that when anything is expressed in the heightened state of any emotion, be it anger- sadness- excitement- fear, it is a false expression of what one truly feels.
Some use love as a cover for what they're really feeling. In the case of fear or anger, instead of feeling it fully, love is tossed out, and then the focus shifts to that place instead of the main event, which could lead to love. However, it needs to go through the process of being felt once the other feelings have been acknowledged.
I don't want to be loved in lieu of someone's terror! Feel your feelings; go into your sorrow and rage. Keep me out of it. This is what you would call a rebound in dating dialectic. I've ricocheted from one person to the next. I'm more like a boomerang. I come full spin, hard and fast.
I don't want to be flung out on the tails of exhilaration; do not love me when you feel grand and ecstatic! Hope springs eternal when the sun shines brightly. It's far too easy to express adoration when the moon looks plump and pretty in the sparkling sky!
I want a love that is sparked by passion, fueled by sensitivity, and supported by a deeply rooted devotion to the practice.
The practice of living, of leaning into what occurs and offering yourself to what comes. The practice of listening to one's inner voice (GOD) and developing discernment. The practice of observing the self in space and understanding how to integrate with others, no matter how demanding or difficult. The practice of wanting everything and acting out of a desire to explore the labyrinth. The practice of seeking, of going into the dark and weaving one's way through the dense underworld. Holding the light in both hands, so tenderly, and sharing it with fellow kindred spirits on the road. The practice of following the path no matter how steep, muddy, or broken it becomes. The practice of asking questions just to hear a story because learning is delightful, especially when done with others. The practice of waking up and not labeling the day as 'good' or 'bad.' The practice of witnessing people in their varied and multifaceted forms and accepting society's role in creating the evil that erupts.
Loving is the practice. People are the practice. Rising to the occasion of each day and facing the greater questions, what will I give? Where are my efforts best placed? How can I take care of myself so I can be more compassionate and loving to all those I encounter? THIS is the practice.
It informs how we move through the world; it sustains life. The need to eat, drink, and have shelter depends on our ability to provide for ourselves. Animals encounter the same challenges each day: what will I eat? Where will I sleep? Is it safe? These questions don't ever go away; the money just makes it a lot easier to forget such things.
Money is ultimately a discussion of death. It's about control. It's also a means of contribution, a way to give back and replenish those needing resources. Food, shelter, clothing, and a means to step up and out of a dire situation. I am happy to contribue. I have yet to pay my taxes, and it's out of laziness in my organization and not a resistence to the system.
Money is more than a currency; it's a current of energy. It must move. It needs to be distributed. It needs flow and focus, like all living things.
My relationship with money has fluctuated grossly over the years. I didn't know how to ask for money. Establishing myself as a sole proprietor was difficult because I was forced to ask for a certain amount per project. I had to look at what the going rate was for my skills and compare it with my experience and what the employer had the means to provide.
It's too easy to say, know your worth. The challenge is finding a point where you are compensated for your time that serves you and the employer. I would rather do the work that I love and be paid less than make a lot of money doing something that doesn't feed my spirit.
When the heart is not in the work, it is felt.
Everyone needs to get paid at the end of the day. However, the people who put their heart into their work are the ones I am after. This is my community. This is my tribe.
In the apartments I rent for one month, I can feel the difference in intention. Some spaces are tended to by those who want to cultivate a home, an experience, for the customers. These people enjoy what they do and this is one way for them to feed themselves, their families, and the community.
Where I am staying right now in Nimes is centered entirely upon making money. There was no consideration for the details in the design. Little attention was paid toward proficiency in systems concerning water, heat, recycling, internet, and garbage; this is how I can tell. It's easy to hang pretty art on the walls and put plants in the corner. A person who takes care of the plumbing and fine-tuning the unsexy aspects of a place is a person who's considered every angle for guests.
The homes I stayed in Berlin, Barcelona, Brazil, and Rabat focused on the profit and not the procedure.
Mouna's place in Marrakesh had heart. The loft in Tagazhout had heart. The studio in Manchester had community and spirit. The space we stayed in Paris was a home. You can feel it. It's in the attentiveness to details.
How to lock the door, when to adjust the heat and water the plants, where to grab a yummy snack in the neighborhood, the kitchen knives, quality of bedsheets, scent of the lotion in the shower; all point at the commitment of the owner to their craft.
Quality over quantity, always. More money does not equate to a better or longer life. More money suspends the questions and dulls the answers.
I have kicked people away who's tempted the ornery child inside of me, Anias. Now I see that the kick protects my heart because that door is always open. It always will be. I don't believe in locked doors.
I am unlike my mother in this way.
The child rears and hits when provoked. It's an inelegant way of saying, stay back. I've kicked when threatened. I've kicked when goaded and teased. I've kicked when my character was attacked, or I was given an ultimatum.
These are all ways of saying I love you to an extent because people don't bother unless they care.
Love and loathing are siblings.
I kicked Number 7 in the face last summer...
Though that is a story for a different post.
Photo source.
