saudade
““There are two types of people in the world: those who prefer to be sad among others, and those who prefer to be sad alone.” ”
I'm swimming in a tunnel. I know it's a tunnel because I'm moving forward. Each time I breaststroke, my fingertips scape the concrete wall. It's concave, like my contact lenses. I'm stroking inside a bell jar with no beginning or end.
The water is tepid. It feels like my skin. I know it's water from the sound, a slight splashing like a mop on the floor. I once watched a man sweep a brittle-brush broom on concrete—blending puddles. There are many ways to keep our hands busy.
My hands pull wide to the side and sweep up to my chin in Anjali Mudra: a prayer that pushes from the heart to the crown of my head. I point my toes after each glide and pause before flexing them out to either side. My mind holds to these details: point, break, flex, close. Push. The ultimate aim is to push.
I'm moving too slowly, so I flip to one side to swim on my back. I wonder if my fingertips will touch the ceiling. I roll over to my right—forgetting to swing left where there's room. I fling my arms and they land heavily on my friend, Clara. I feel her body jump under my outstretched limbs.
The bed is warm. The windows are cold. My nose is cold. My toes are warm.
I shuffle to the left, where there's room. Space to create a cave of bedsheets and tuck my arms discreetly by my side. My friend sleeps. I shudder. Where would that tunnel have led me?
It's dark when I rise. I've woken to the patter of slippered feet on wooden floorboards—the dry crack of blades on beans. I sip coffee with Clara and watch the sky lighten. I read a book titled "Today" to Karmen and sit on the floor for a tea party. My last fete before departure.
Karmen wears a brown dress and leopard tights to see me down the long sea-green carpeted steps. She watches me break a zipper as I pack. She selected each brush from my makeup bag and gently patted her cheeks like I showed her. She points at the tooth floss, toe spreaders, yoga blocks, and scarf. These things are all coming with me. Yes, I nod.
My gums have been bleeding for days—the stress of the unknown causes minor ruptures that fill my mouth with iron. Extractions are a fancy way of saying removing blackheads, says my dermatologist. That's what I'm going through: an Extraction.
Clara packs me a care pack to take on the plane. Lentil soup. Trail mix with yogurt chips. Fig bars. Cashews. Crisps. Toasted bread with nut butter. Eat, she says. You've had a lot of coffee. My body shakes with the pressure, and I wonder: am I the bean or the grinder? Both, say my teeth.
I've collected a list of simple Spanish words to practice in my travels:
Tortuga
Oso
Caballo
Agua
My actions will be limited.
The morning before my extraction, I placed my palms on my belly and closed my eyes. I imagined a seed, a poppy seed, because their tiny and round and black. Like the eye of a flea. I imagined the dry husk of the poppy seed pod. I took the pod between my thumbs and broke it in half, spilling the ripe black seeds into my palms. I took just one seed and wrapped it in a small rectangle of linen. I tied the linen at the top with two corners and got it a little wet.
I was crying, you see. I'm very frugal.
I took my little corner of wet cloth and placed it in a wooden box. The box was no more than an inch across and high. The top of the box slide into place. It was flat. It is the perfect size to hold a pair of earrings. I took the little box, and I covered it with cacti thorns. To protect the wet inside and my idea. The idea is worth more than the possession.
I carry that tiny seed wrapped in wet cloth in the sliding-lid wooden box covered in cacti thorns everywhere I venture. On days like today, when I have a long day of layovers at airports, I take a pen and use it as a sword. I cut the thorns away to get to the little wet-wrapped seed inside the box. You cannot reach at it with a hand. Grasping never gets one anywhere.
A writer knows what tools to choose. A pen is the best means of protection for one who whittles a life out of words.
I write to soothe the angst in my bones. It's always there—this trepidation. The fear of falling. The fear of not knowing where I will land. The quiet knowing that I belong yet want to be pulled out like a thorn from the desert. I'm dry on the outside and moist inside, like a cactus. I prefer things that appear as paradoxes. The inversion is way more interesting.
I gathered kisses instead of goodbyes. One cheek for Clara. A palmful from Karmen. They left me on the wet pavement with my bags: a purple backpack, leather satchel, black tote, and sizeable purple duffle.
The duffle bears an assortment of nonsensical items, notwithstanding:
2 sets of Bala bar ankle weights
(2lbs/each)
3 sweaters
6 bathing suits
(3 one-piece, 3 bikinis)
1 leather jacket
1 suede jacket
1 denim jacket
1 rain jacket
6 beeswax candles
2 cartons of incense
Taiwanese money
(mostly change)
American money
(mostly bills)
A massage ball
Wooden hairbrush
Fennel toothpaste
A metal statue of Ganesha
8 pairs of shoes
Hiking shoes
Leather espadrilles
Spanish leather heels
Blue and black boots made in Italy
Pointy-toed ankle boots
Runners
Fluffy sea-green slippers
Does this count?
Converse sneakers
9 pairs of rolled-up socks
4 pairs of rolled-up yoga pants
1 leather satchel from Thailand
1 leather buckle-belt from Thailand
My favourite dress from NYC
My favourite clutch from France
Pyjamas from Anthropologie
(the ones I purchased with Clara)
Perfume from the Skin Shoppe off Main Street
The Bala bars appear as 'indistinct black objects' at customs. I will be asked to reveal the heavy bracelets each time I fly unless I check my bag. The lentil soup leaks on my satchel, and I smell of basil and cumin. Home, or what was my abode for seven days. I discover a small, fuzzy sock in my bag. Karme’s. I wrap my perfume in it so the glass will not break.
A young-ish couple smoke from a pipe and aluminum foil in the elevator at the A1 line to the airport in Seattle. I don't have the correct change and cannot pay my baggage fees without an American credit card. I repack and bear the twenty-eight pounds on my back. I pace the length of the airport to settle the turbulence in my belly and listen to a Yoga Nidra lying on a metal bench with no back
Two hours pass at the hands of my taxes: I take pictures of my receipts and upload each photograph to the Quickbooks App. My purchases since January 2022 include eight trips to Minoru Aquatic Center, eleven receipts to Birds & Beats (Miso Barley Bowl, Oat Jam Cookie, Americano with Cream), an evening at the American with Pickle Back Shots, and a trip to Honey for a black lace garter.
Mallory and I went to the American the same night Zack and Hugh went out. They went to the No. 5 Orange to see Mia. Hugh wanted to see Mallory, and Mallory wanted to see Hugh. I wanted to see Zack; he did not want to see me. I'd bought a backless silk pink blouse with little laces that tied at the shoulder. I pinned my hair to the side with a gold clip and wore my white Space Boots. Mallory never combs her hair. She doesn't need to. She wore her hair loose—soft curls—with dark jeans and an olive tank. We sat at a high-topped bar and ordered Wyse Creamsicle Sodas and Pickle Backs. I have 5 sodas and 4 shots on my bill.
I don't remember walking home that night. I do remember being naked in Mallory's apartment, crying. We slept in her white bed thigh-to-thigh, and when we woke up, I did yoga while she drew sketches. Simple outlines of my body in a lunge, warrior, forward fold, down dog. I seek symmetry when I'm sad. It's better to seek something tangible when grieving. I'd rather that to sympathy.
The announcer calls our flight: DL926, and I stop pacing to line up to the left with the other passengers. There is no space on this plane. Eight of us need to check our carry-ons for free, no matter the weight. I offer mine, grateful to be lighter. SEA → SLC → (layover) → SLC→ PHX is my route.
During the layover, I pace the aisles and listen to Just Be and watch the departures. It soothes me to see simple tasks completed. I find it reassuring to watch others perform their tedious arrangements. A woman plucks her chin from a small compact. Two men play sudoku on opposite sides of the corridor. A baby in a grey romper with blue feet crawls over the leather seats. Four teenage girls eat popcorn and unpack their bags, procuring colouring books and pens. A young woman with close-cropped white hair cleans her glasses. A cluster of teenage boys crowds around one small device to watch a basketball game. Two elderly women feed pomeranian bits of cucumber.
We are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder here, surrounded by glass windows displaying the rain. So close, I can smell the cheap cologne, chocolate, smoke, and pizza sauce on those I pass. Yet, we each are contained in our private little worlds. Each of us cocooned in private musings. A world we each belong to and this world we share.
Identity is a fickle thing. I wish to discover something so extraordinary that it costs all that I was and offers the unimagined in return! Who I am standing alongside the couple in matching sweatsuits is not who I was before I arrived in Seattle. The woman I was before, treading in a narrow tunnel just this morning, has shapeshifted. I exchanged a wooden table, neroli-blossom lotion, and dozen potted plants for the pursuit.
A text: "This is the beginning of an epic season in your life, Stephanie. It's going to be grand."
All I need to keep moving.
When I arrive at my hotel, the sky is dark, and the curtains are drawn. The reception gave me a key card to 123, a room on the first floor, twenty-four doors down on my right. My room is bigger than it needs to be. I perform a routine to ground. Undress. Rinse. Moisturize. Drink water. Massage feet. Lay down. I need something to hold onto as I float. Aloft like a feather in the pond. Duck fluff. PJ Harvey.
I turn off all of the lights. I pull down the white sheets and stretch my arms and legs as far as they will go out to the sides. I cannot see or touch anything in the tunnel. I taste the wind. I close my eyes to the words of a poem. Another root to hold tight.
To bring myself to sleep, I recollect the steps and stories that got me to where I am right now.
Right here, right now, I am on the beam!
Photo, source.
