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“And above all, do nothing. Trust yourself to chance. Surrender yourself completely, don’t plan things.”
Dear Simone,
Writing was not gripping me the past week. I have been hungry for others things. Intimacy, for one. To be touched. I long to be in a room with someone who understands what I am. I am far from the friends who would fill me up this way.
I feel like the coffee I heat at the stove every morning. The grind is not correct for the French press. It is the best I can do; I've been unable to locate a coffee grinder and the grocery stores have fewer choices than I am used to.
Clara is shipping me a hand-grinder with my book by Hilda. I will also request the deodorant paste that I use. I am nearly out.
I stood and examined my face in the mirror for too many minutes this morning. It has rained for six days and I am bloated from it. Perhaps this is why I did not write; my fingers are swollen.
My silver ring was stuck on my middle finger for two days before I could pry it off with a bit of soap in the lukewarm shower. No matter how I rinse and release the windows, I feel coated in the sweaty dampness that is the jungle. My face is waxen. Gold, even. The eyes are clear and the skin smooth. I have my insides to thank for the transparency.
I have pushed my weight around for six days in core yoga classes. I sweat for ninety minutes and then stretch before taking the corpse pose. I listen to Douglas Brooks while I lay and absorb the lectures on Tantra Yoga. I'm exploring Annamaya Kosha, the physical body and the first of the five koshas. From Vedantic philosophy, the koshas are the layers or sheaths surrounding the soul. There are five in total; the physical body is the first. What we take into our physical space and self energetically affects the other four koshas that inform the spirit.
The spirit (5) is influenced by the flesh (1), breath (2), mind (3), and intuition (4). We start at the most obvious layer and move into the subtle.
The subtle is where the subconscious dwells, and it is where I have been floating for days now. My dreams are vivid. My mind is thick. The air in the waking world is cotton. The air in my dreams, sateen. I feel too much and when it's out of alignment with what I see or hear, I get upset and retreat.
I've spent a lot of time on the floor.
I've spent a lot of time in bed.
I've spent a lot of time lighting candles and listening to the sounds of the jungle. The pattern of rain. The birds. The crickets call from the thicket.
I promised to write to you every day, but I couldn't.
There was nothing to say.
The language was too permanent and in that in-between realm, I only wanted to listen. I did not want to share. I still do not want to write, though I am beginning to feel more distraught than lackluster. I am lonely, and the best ease for that anguish writing.
I know how to soothe my soul.
Through you, I am gaining wisdom about what moves me. What suffocates my heart and what strikes it!
I already feel it, though the recollection adds nuance and definition.
My word for 2023 is Refine.
• To improve by making small changes, in particular, to make more subtle and accurate.
It's fitting to what I want to do. I will go deeper into the channels I have already cleaved. There are two rocks and a small gap between them. I've stuck a metal bar in the middle and slowly pried them apart to get to the space in between.
It's dark and cold between those stones, precisely where I want to be.
I am ravished at the moment. I want to consume everything. I purchased all sorts of pasta. Tortellini, ravioli, and triangolo stuffed with cheese and mushroom and spinach. No matter how much I eat, I am never sated.
It is not food I crave, but human touch. And for this, I suffer from impatience.
It is through our lack that we become stronger.
I have lacked discipline, Simone. I've been standing in the dark, searching for a sign. I leaped from the wagon and stayed in the sands with my feet spread and hands clasped at my back. I was waiting for the sun to rise and it never did.
My eyes bled purple tears and when I woke up, the sheets were soaked. I did not strip them. I swam in that pool of liquids that leeched from my body for days. The bugs keep chasing me in my living space and my legs are spotted with dark black pimples from the bites. I've spit until there is no more saliva and I cannot escape the itch.
I chose to write to you and return to where I was because I saw a toucan yesterday.
I had been standing on my yoga mat, chanting to the unstruck, when I opened my eyes for no special reason. It had stopped raining. The clouds were fat and hung low; Christ was concealed. The bushes throbbed and in it, I saw a bright orange bill cut through the green.
Toucans are not good flyers. They work hard to get high and then glide to where they want to be. A balance of effort and ease.
Latin American symbolism holds that toucans communicate and move between worlds; the seen and unseen.
So, here I am, Simone. Nudged out of hiding. Catching up on my correspondence with you. I will have to work hard to get up and out, though once my wings are spread wide, I will glide easily through the wilderness.
It is a relief to know the return is always willing and waiting.
Photo source.
