matutine
“Don’t wait for it…Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. Create. And then the love will come to you, then it comes to you.”
Dear Simone,
I need to say goodbye to someone and to avoid saying it to him, I am saying it to you.
Let me start at the beginning; I'll tell you the story of my weekend.
Saturday occurred as it always does. Grey sky. Cats on the street corners. Plastic bottles filled with urine tucked not-so-discreetly by the trees. I'm painting a bleak portrait, aren't I? My seafoam green nails are chipped, and there hasn't been enough hot water to wash my hair all week.
I made oatmeal with the last few goji berries and dates for breakfast. The bananas were bruised and I had no milk or almond butter, so the event was a bit bland. I worked from the cafe where I had two lattes and wrote and sipped so furiously my hands shook. When I rose to leave, I felt faint and ordered bread with peanut butter and jam to ground me.
Clara taught a class with Agni Sara and Fierce Face. I set my chin on the ground, flipped my legs in the air, and held the pose for a few seconds. Remember to breathe.
Indeed.
Remember to breathe amidst the tension. Remember to puff up your being even when you are hard and contracted. Remember to fill yourself with light while you're working hard. Concentrate with all your effort and resist the obstacles. Receive the cues by listening. Deeply. Listen with your entire body.
He came over late, later than usual, because I had work calls on Zoom and since our minor dispute a few weeks ago, I told him to arrive when I'm finished.
Do we all flounder a bit when we feel unattended to Simone?
I do.
We sat thigh-to-thigh on the couch and read one of my favorite books. The Alchemist by Paulo Cahlo. One of us would pick up a sentence and the other would finish it. We moved between the paragraphs, our voices overlapping, fingers intertwined. He tapped on his chest for me to recline and I did. His hair was in my eyes and I thought, this is how he sees the world from behind these beautiful, thick, dark curls.
My voice was soft and certain. His voice was low and hesitant. I stressed the appropriate syllables to encourage the story. He paused at the end of each line where the sentence split as the words wove down the page.
It's a curious thing to listen to someone read in English who is unaccustomed to the language. It's like tasting fruit for the first time. Sloppy yet delightful. Full of pits and worth picking through.
We read until he was tired and then we went to bed. He was depleted.
I felt sad, Simone. I looked forward to seeing him all week and when he finally arrived, he didn't have much to give.
Is the wait all week worth a mere thirty minutes with someone you love?
Yes. The answer is a wholehearted yes.
I would trade a week for even ten minutes to read The Alchemist with my lover.
I still went to bed feeling sad.
There is something sweet about melancholy. Isn't melancholia a wish? A wish to be where you used to be? A wish to skip ahead to where you want to be?
Sadness is linked to hope, Simone. It has to be. My hope is abundant. My hope is buoyant. My hope has wings and a tail to navigate the contrasting elements. I want to be able to fly, float, and swim when I am with him.
I miss him. And when I am with him, I feel sad because he is not with me when he arrives. He is somewhere else.
Exhaustion strips people of their personality.
Loss of identity results from a lack of time to turn inwards to ask the bigger questions.
This is the main problem with how we've constructed labor: it demands and takes everything.
You cannot get to the glitter if you're busy cleaning the grime.
Photo source.
