glaucous
“War is what happens when language fails.”
A sweet recount of my first impression of a new country…
It is my first day in Spain. I wanted to feel joy at having landed in the country I’d been dreaming about for two years. I wanted to celebrate with a Jivamukti yoga class and meet community members who share a passion for movement and mantra. Instead, I got lost, and the studio was closed. I spent the morning trying to find a place to get food. Barcelona is very much like Geneva; much is closed on Sunday.
Oddly, my arrival always takes place on the day of rest.
Goddess Day.
I grew hot and upset by my lack of understanding. I don’t understand Catalan and couldn’t find anyone to speak English. I found a small cafe and purchased an espresso and a pistachio croissant to snack. It was afternoon by the time I ate. I wish that made me feel better, a lovely fluffy pastry with green nuts and a frothy drink in a miniature glass cup. It did not. I felt lonely. I couldn’t get anchored in anything, not even the view of locals sipping boozy beverages in their fancy frocks and suits.
My host is wonderful. A tattoo artist, she is from Milan and has lived in Spain for twelve years. She has dark hair and eyes and a light-hearted disposition. I like where I stay, though I am melancholic for my space. A Home. My Home. What is that now?
I lost Ganesha. I cannot find him anywhere. The little gold statue was gifted to me seven years ago. I know he is tucked into some crevasse of one bag or another that I packed tightly. He is missing, not lost, and I am too hot to bother searching. Plus, I want something to be sad about. So I cry for my lost Ganesha.
Unwilling to surrender defeat, I unrolled my yoga mat in a local park. Yellow petals blew across my feet as I took Surya Namaskar. My feet and palms picked up the dirt from the outdoors. My back and shoulders burned under the eye of the sun. It was cloudy when I opened my practice. As my body blossomed and beaded with sweat, the sun spread her magnificence through the clouds. I broke wide open as the sky and sang and cried.
A little group gathered to watch me as I spread my mat across hot stones. Yellow petals were falling to my hair. I shook them at my feet as I moved through surya namaskar.
As I walked home through the pink corridors, the sky darkened. I made toast with avocado and tomato and cucumbers and cheese. I sat at my makeshift desk, ate, and read a bit of philosophy. Reason is reconciliation, even if I don’t always have it.
Soren Kierkegaard, a Danish philosopher, claimed that people act based on ethics or aesthetics. I am simplifying his thesis, though the claim is that individuals pursue an exciting lifestyle or one that is more secure. The roots are established in childhood.
I live an aesthetic lifestyle. I carve romance. I love being in love—I don’t even care how long. I know the initial spark will not last. It cannot. There are many wondrous things to be sparked by. I love the sparkle, the tingling skin. The way my heart lifts and screams through my body. I put my hands on my chest to keep it there. I will not let it go flying up and out, into whatever cause has made it sing!
For now, it stays within me. It must. The return feels so much worse without my heart in my body. I am porous and also made of stone. I can spark and also contain the sweetness inside of me. I do not have to offer that to anyone else.
Stay here, precious heart.
I need you for this journey. I need you to be brave in the sadness that sweeps through me when I realize how utterly alone I am on the beam.
Mid-afternoon, I did a little writing by the window and listened to the neighbour’s banter in Catalan mixed with a bit of French. Kierkegaard believed that each person is free. That we are each responsible for our development through action and idea. An existentialist believes that we create the purpose and narrative of our own lives.
Make do with what you’ve got. Tend to the garden and help it grow. Lay the bricks in a line and stack them neatly. Look up and one day you will see something worth watching for. If you don’t like the story, write your own ending.
Photo source.
