evara
“anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)”
Dear Anias,
I think it's better that we do not know each other. It is easier to confess to a stranger than express myself to someone who thinks they know me.
I speak plainly to those around me. It's out of a lack of tact more so than consideration for what comes out. I've gotten better at pausing before I pronounce myself. Not because I reflect before I speak. I've not known the native tongue for many months now. It takes me a long while to understand what's been said, and that's the pause.
I'm learning to cajole entire conversations without any verbal exchange! I wink, cock my head to one side, nod, smile, hold up my hands, and shift my weight from one foot to the other. Women understand the gestures. A young girl who rings up my groceries meets me in this silence. She returns the nod and gives me a thumbs-up. Sometimes she waves. She has purple nail polish and large eyeglasses. They take up over half her face. Her hair is always in a ponytail. She wears a lot of greys.
I am more inclined to speak to women in this playful pattern than to men. I use words to set a boundary. No. No, thank you.
There are many ways to express an affirmation and perhaps less as the opposite. In my experience, men do not receive the No unless it is spoken out loud. Even when it is spoken out loud. Sometimes I have to repeat myself. Most times, I must repeat myself. Most times, I am ignored.
Maybe this is why the girl wears only grey. Color is one way to blend in. To disappear.
I keep asking my guides why I am here in this body as a woman.
Silence comes back in the shape of church bells ringing. I rise and pull the curtains back; sunlight and blackbirds are always careening over the stone rooftops.
My morning has been fuzzy. My skin is oily. My nails keep breaking. My hair is long and loose; I don't realize myself when it's down.
Last night, I dreamt that I was serving ice cream cones to people in a park. I was standing on the hillside in a little wooden shack. I was leaning in the doorway with a waffle cone and a tray of vanilla and strawberry. The most basic flavors. I placed single scoops in the cones coated with rainbow sprinkles and topped them with a palmful of chocolate. Little kids asked for gummies. I didn't know the gooey candies were in front of me until someone asked for them. A little girl with gold eyes pointed and there they were, a tray of green gummy candies shaped like hearts with eyes.
Watching for Code and Frankie, I handed the cones to the kids one at a time. They didn't appear. No one I knew appeared.
Abderrahmane was meant to meet me. We had agreed to meet at the beach and wait for the boat together. I felt this promise in my body. He had not appeared in the park, though I did not give up hope. I kept scanning the green for a familiar face.
You have to be patient, Haro said to me. He arrived at the ice cream stoop with his bike. Ayoub and Ahmed were waiting with their bicycles behind them. Haro would not make eye contact with me. I gave him three cones.
He will come. You must be patient.
Haro left with the cones and returned to the wooden door to collect his bike, where he'd left it leaning on the wall.
Why do you always rush things?
He left, and the boy's shirts waved like red and green flags in the sunset. It was dimming all around me, and the children stopped coming for the ice cream. The sky was dark purple and blue. My feet and hands were cold. I wrapped myself in my blanket scarf and sat on the stoop to watch for the stars.
Abderrahmane did arrive. I did not see him. I did not recognize him. He was wearing his yellow toque, and I did not know who he was without his curly hair.
Isn't it odd how we get used to people appearing for us in such a way? In one particular way over the other? He has two appearances: hair down and loose on his shoulders or pulled back in a bun with one of the curly plastic hair ties. The cap changed the proportions of his person, and he was in front of me before I realized it was him.
I looked up, and his eyes were dark as the dimming sky. We didn't smile.
We did not speak. We did not greet each other.
Do I need spoken agreements with people, or is the feeling enough?
I did not exchange words with any kids who claimed their cones. I knew what they wanted. They received the offering and left. Only the one who asked for the candies could receive something extra from me. Something I did not know I had to offer.
He set one foot on the ground in a way I know is an invitation to hop on the back of the bike. I placed my hands on his hips and set my feet on the metal rods. I moved my hands to his shoulders and squeezed twice. I slide each foot back, so the arch of my foot hovers; this way, he can pedal without his heel clipping my toe.
Let's Go.
He pedaled off into the dark toward the shoreline. We were catching a boat, a ferry, to somewhere across the sea. We would not bring his bike. We would not bring my bag; I had left it in the wooden ice cream shack. He had no belongings with him. Just that orange toque. Trickster.
Riding with him is one of the most exhilarating and tormenting experiences. I have no control. I am a little higher than the top of his head and can watch as he steers the slim handlebars, weaving through traffic. Shifting right or left to avoid people and potholes. He uses momentum to keep a swift pace, pedaling hard and coasting downhill. The brakes on the backline did not work for a few weeks and he'd use his feet to slow down before stopping. I close my eyes and hum when the rhythm of the bike tempts the fury of my heart!
There are three gates the soul must pass through to move beyond its current container and evolve. Or maybe it's seven gates. Or nine.
It depends on the myth.
I will say that there are four for the sake of this story.
Gate 1: you must make an offering before they can leave. You must give what you have and what you did not know you had. You will be asked a question. How you respond will determine whether you move forward or back.
Gate 2: you will meet an adversary. A lesson will appear in the shape of something or someone you will not want to receive. What you do with it will define your next phase.
Gate 3: you will not recognize the path; you must stop seeking. Stop looking. There is a way to will the self to connect with the source without manipulating the landscape. You must act regardless of what happened before or what will occur afterward.
Gate 4: you must surrender. We all suffer by the strong hands of Control: the name of the Demon who imposes and exploits. If I were to name the root cause of suffering, I would say it is owing to our need for power.
I am not driving unless I am.
Free will versus Fate; I am the cause, the action, and the origin of my efforts.
I've been speaking of my participation in Ramadan and the other day; I heard myself say, I am Ramadan; I start on Thursday.
The woman I was speaking with assumed I meant something else. She thinks I am American. I let her think about me what she wants.
Unless I am asked, I do not offer.
I think it's best we do not know each other, Anias. This way, I can ramble on with you and give you all that I have! You don't need to ask me any questions; I have enough of my own.
Photo source.
