elan
“I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth - and truth rewarded me.”
I was restless yesterday so took to the woods to ease my disquiet. For an hour, I paced my room and burned incense. I fussed over the grammatical correctness of one story. I flickered from pluperfect to past tense. The narrative of characters spiral backwards and forwards in the same sentance. Excitement takes its leaps and I end up in the future.
I cannot contain the sheer elan of living!
I do hold back once I feel the grip tighten—intent is a dialogue.
The slackening of the line leads to an eventual ending.
Severance is death.
In Aikido, you give your partner a little resistance. Take the wrist, firm hold, pull just enough to feel the strength of the other. No pulling. No need to grasp or tug at the opponent. Hands are used to direct the energy. The source is the pelvis.
Once a connection between Nage (giver ) and Uke (receiver) is established, action follows. The parallel comes first: two lines converge at a point that tips. Subsequent narratives recede the past.
I Am Here; I say with a palm as I take my opponent's wrist. From navel to throat, the through-line is mine—I can communicate my feelings, needs, and requests. I have no control over what is returned.
Relatedness with an outside source is perhaps one of the most arduous, ephemeral, and desirous affairs.
I dreamt of Zach last night. I’m still carrying that barb in my body.
The woods surfaced sensation suppressed by my mind. Aloft in the trees, my senses soar and my body recuperates. I sometimes feel stifled by the conscious connection to things! Aikido is teaching me to contain and direct the Ki force. I’m a blur of light that sprinkles outwards. Excitement takes its leap and I end up in the feeling space of others.
What is mine, what is yours, what is ours; a practice of boundaries.
I met Zach at a Christmas Party on December 12th, 2022. I did not want to go out that evening. Feeling lethargic and nostalgic, I donned a pair of black cigarette pants and black lace chemise. I wore leather heels and a new pair of geometric navy and blush earrings; I tied small braids into my hair with clear elastic bands.
I felt dirty. After one glass of wine in the bathroom mirror, I looked desirous to myself.
I started solo at a friend's open house. I met two friends there and we party hopped from Main Street to Kitsilano and then to Gastown for The American, where I met Zach.
He wore a red and black plaid shirt with dark jeans. He has a resonant voice like mushroom risotto. He called me by my full name, always. No one refers to me with three syllables. Nine letters is long. People cap it off. Not Zach. To him, I was always Stephanie.
We didn’t talk much at the bar. I stood to the side and observed. Sipping tequila, musing over maskless mouths. We walked back to my friend's studio loft in Gastown when the bar closed. Gin and tonic cocktails at 4 AM. I broke a glass. While all slept, Zach and I played on the couch. In the morning light, he took my hand. And tucked it into his pocket—our fingers interlaced.
I wish I could recall the language he gave me. All I remember is my name, Stephanie. Over and over. No other words fell from his lips that first convergence. My mind has edited the memory, so its refinement is a shallow portrait of what it once was.
He didn’t grab my wrist, yet I felt the thrust. Connection. Relationship. The intent was unclear, like tossing pennies into a fountain. What we hope for is soon forgotten once we drop the gaze.
In the morning, I left to teach yoga. My silk shirt wrinkled from being pressed so close to another body. I wore yellow socks. This detail is not important, yet it is more defined. Zack's head at my chest, tasting the scent of my neck. His hands-on my feet. My palm in his pocket. We shared coffee, and I left.
In my dream, I cannot see his face. He would not appear for me. My hair is white like fire and I’m looking out the studio window where we were once lovers. We are on the phone.
I thought you were the perfect prospect.
The line slackens.
He gave me no resistance.
Does Love demand we fight?
My Aikido partner teaches me how to hold up both hands as I move. We come to blows unintentionally; this way, I am protected. I have a physical boundary between myself and others. Extend your arms—pronounce yourself! Hold your space; you don’t need to push or pull; just hold it. There, lightly.
I wish I knew to express such elegance in structure when I met Zach. To hold and not to clasp. To extend outward without reaching. To move from the womb—navel to throat—and communicate how I felt.
Alas, excitement takes its leaps and I end up in the future.
I thought you were the perfect prospect.
In Aikido, the way to hold your ground is through the deep energy lines of the body. The Ki. My instruction is to hold my arms with palms flat, fingers together. The energy flows from the navel through the fingers. A fist breaks the line. When my opponent finds the elbow joint and attempts to break the shape, I hold it, extending from the navel through the open palm. I don't buckle, bend, or break.
As the line began to slacken between Zach and me, I sharpened the line and extended my palm. I intuited the break and used my body to cut the cord.
I tore myself away from the role, the safe comforts of the convention.
I know the Truth will reward me.
Photo source.
