naufragous
“All that is important is this one moment in movement. Make the moment important, vital, and worth living. Do not let it slip away unnoticed and unused.”
Dear Simone,
Heart's have been heavy this week. I was alone for three days and two evenings in this stone apartment. No matter how high I turn up the heat or how many layers I tuck myself into, it is cold. I've no winter clothes. My stockings are sheer. My sweaters are loosely knit and let the breeze blow through to the skin. I wore his shirt and hoodie to dance class and still couldn't break a sweat.
Papillion is a butterfly in French. It is what the teacher said to me with her hand pressed to my low back.
Salema wore a red shirt and a long purple scarf. He socks were tight and I could see the articulation of her toes each time she arched her foot. My feet ache after the class, though not nearly as much as my inner thighs and low abdomen.
Papillion, butterfly legs, is the second exercise where we transition from hugging our knees together for the duration of the sketch to keeping our feet together and knees wide.
In yoga, we call this Baddha Konasana.
Salema added a fourth action to the sketch on Friday, where we moved our legs from Baddha Konasana to Upavistha Konasana- which is a wide-legged seated forward fold.
I do not know the dance names or recall what was said in French. It is easier to refer to the postures in the language I understand best, Sanksrit.
Drawing inward is difficult for me; the impression of the abdomen (Mulabandha) pulling in and upward from the pubic floor. This action stabilizes and supports the lower back. With each exhale, there is a subtle engagement of Mulabandha. Not tightly, never yanking or tearing. Just a gentle tug, as you would draw curtains closed. Smooth and slow to create a neat line from the pubis to the navel or connect the cloth's edge to the window, concealing the light.
I throw everything open, pressing outward. I pull the fabric back and let the outer world inside, no matter the time of day.
The prayers have been sung, so it must be a cloudy day. It is black outside right now; the sun has yet to rise. The gauzy window coverings are drawn only because the room is so cold. My fingers are hot from my computer fan though my toes and cheeks are cool.
Skin on skin makes me tingle.
Skin on the wood floor makes me feel strong!
My heart skips when I am on the flat grey rug in the living room and gallops at an erratic pace when he pulls me on top of him.
It would put me to death to stay at that peak for too long.
I can hardly breathe.
I hold my breath when I'm concentrating and Salema stands over me and raps my shoulders, respire! She says something else about relaxing that I do not care enough to translate.
The women who join me are in their thirties to sixties. All previous dancers. They move slowly, like swimming in molasses or honey. Or melted chocolate. Or smooth almond butter with lots of oil. Their necks are long, their legs even longer. I feel small and squat next to them in his tank top and my yoga pants. I tied my hair in a bun to mimic their grace and softened my arms from elbow to wrist.
Bien, très joli, said Salema with those dark eyebrows raised as she walked by. And then, respire! Girl, you must breathe!
I hold my breath when I'm working. I inhale and retain my breath at the top. I hug inward and hold-hold-hold. I forget to exhale. I forget to let go. I forget to release what I am holding.
What am I holding onto, Simone?
Life- the unbearable urge to clutch at the things that appear in front of me.
The desire to feel it all and hang tight to the pleasurable sensations.
During the session, Salema moved to the mirror and drew the thick grey curtain across it.
Feel; you must feel the expression in your body. No more thinking. Posture is as much about what you feel, the muscles that engage, as it is about the consious act of watching yourself in the mirror.
You must see it to understand and feel it to embody it in your being. Breathe inwards and feel. Breathe outwards and feel.
Every action is an expression of our relationship with the world, Simone.
I am imbalanced in the art of giving and taking.
I need garbage removal to clear out the bottom layer of compost and scrap away the unnecessary residue. Do the bats come because I call them? Is it my subconscious calling out to a force greater than myself, to come to remove what has been piling up inside of me?
Are the bats a necessary iniquity to my inability to unleash the things I will not look at?
I have given up people, family-partners-friends, without a backward turn. I commit myself with unwavering loyalty to a point, and once that border has been crossed, there is no way to step backward. I have cut people out of my life for reasons I cannot fully articulate. I feel the thing and move with it- without question or comment to the engaged parties.
I don't believe I owe people that much allowance in our relations.
Things either work or they don't.
Talking and working things out— this layer of compromise and negotiation— are for social equity and business affairs. If there is disagreement or despair between myself and a friend or lover, I don't think I should adapt my needs and values to accommodate them. I firmly believe that we can be ourselves and be in a relationship without controlling the other person. Or asking them to change who they are to adapt to our desires.
That is not a true relationship; adjusting who we are to accommodate someone else.
Love is a gift, and feeling its warmth is the most wonderful experience. You cannot extract a relationship by fear or force. It must be offered.
Clara called me and said she felt so loved and held by me. She was wearing the ring I sent her and the sweater I had left behind.
I offered because she never asked.
In other relationships, the demand is too great and it causes that precious thread that binds me to break.
He knocked over the vase with the fountain grass and the shards got stuck in the carpet. He did not try to mend the glass. It was swept up and put in the rubbish bin in a separate paper bag to avoid ripping the plastic. I placed the grass in the slender vase with the four dried roses I'd purchased for my birthday.
Love is like that, Simone.
It is the vase broken by accident.
It is the withered roses with brittle petals.
It is the hands collecting the pieces for disposal.
Love is like that, Simone.
It can feel solemn sometimes.
Floating is freeing, and the heaviness makes me itch and bind to unnecessary balms to settle the disquiet. I clutch like a grasping child, a greedy lover, a wounded woman.
Is this when the bats come? Their wings beating furiously as soon as the sun sets? In the darkness, I meet the ugly parts of myself.
Perhaps this is why I get up to greet the light and write to you, Simone.
By nightfall, I am too distorted.
Photo source.
