memnu
Pay attention to how things feel. I’ve been practicing feeling with my guts before I decide or speak to others. The little cafe I work from has yellow walls, pink upholstery, and green plants dangling from corners. One fat philodendron reminds me of the one I kept in my home. I had to break the pot it was in when it was time to move it to a bigger dish. The roots were showing beneath the dirt. The plant was too tight.
I am in the same situation. My surroundings are tight as a glove on the hand that's outgrown the garment. I will not stuff my fingers into units too small! I wore my favorite sweater until it had holes in the wrists and armpits. It became a dusty moth grey when I purchased it in black. I went through a phase where this was the only option, midnight. I wanted to blend so no one could see me. Mute in the back row. The same day I tossed the sweater in the trash bin, I wore bright red capri pants and gold jewelry. I am an extremist in my preferred form and focus.
I’ve outgrown where I am and have nothing to discard as a symbol of my departure. Moving forward has never been so difficult. I am used to striving, pushing, and protesting. I have nothing to resist; like the tendrils of a plant reaching toward the light, I am supported by my surroundings, and the effect should be calming.
It is not. I am uncomfortable. I am ill at ease by the graciousness of my lifestyle. It is too simple. It is too natural. It is too liberating. I hold my breath just to feel like I am out of sync, and even this event brings me deeper awareness. I am not afraid. I am open and willing to confront whatever glances at me. I can hold its gaze.
Each note is played without glancing backward or looking ahead to prepare for what is to come. I watched a woman sing with a cold beer in my hand, and her voice brought thunder to my veins. Every sip after that was warm. I have no idea what is going on because it's all in Turkish. A storm broke the tree branches, and the little white car got stuck on a hill. Not even this deterred me. Feliz and Morris have left the property to go hiking, and it's just me and Captain and the striped cat that eats off my porch, but no one knows its name. I can conjure meaning from the madness; Clara would say none of it matters. What it is, is what it is, and acceptance is the only path to progress.
What are you doing?
Resting.
Are you tired?
No.
Come with me.
City to the forest and back to the beach. I miss the little hut cabin with the tapered glass and spotty internet. I miss the lace curtains that keep the bugs out and the breeze moving. I miss the wooden bedframe that faces east so I can feel the sunrise before I see it. I miss the porch where I sat and looked out at the mountains as I swept the olive branches from my yoga mat. I miss the brown carpet where I brushed the tops of my feet to feel the roughness against my skin. I bought avocado cream, which is less silky than rose petal lotion. I had such an exquisite weekend, and now I am in the city, and it's a weekday, and I don't know what to do with myself.
There is a story inside what I am doing, and I have been unable to catch it. Like the end of a kite that's a little short, and my arm is not long enough to grasp it. Here, you have the problem; the grasping. I cannot take it; I must wait for it. What is it, you might ask, I don't know what it is, and the more I reach, the worse the situation becomes.
I have laid out my summer like a paisley picnic blanket. It is pretty, but what is the point if there is no food or drinks? What about the invitation list? I am all alone. I have prepared a quinoa salad with white cheese from the market and dill. Three different types of lettuce (two green and one purple), with tomato (red) and cucumber (the usual color), plus a bit of lemon from the garden. It's a bit wet; I will not mix the tomatoes next time. I will leave them sliced on the side with salt and pepper.
I've cleaned this new home from the cupboard to the windowsill. I swept until the dustbin was full. White dog hair sticks to the upholstery and the rugs. The blue rug beneath the bed, I wish I could move it. I know it is not clean and the thought makes my skin crawl and scalp itch. I tried to move the bed, but it was too heavy. I asked Emre and he gave me a look and said, Baby, Why?
The windows are floor-to-ceiling and concealed with two layers of drapes—sheer and velvet. I remove the outer layer so it's dim and the draft carries seeds and leaves across the bare floors. I FELT BETTER once I'd swept and wiped all the surfaces with a damp cloth. My body settled and the tension was only in my neck and shoulders.
I miss the hut, but I was not contented in the hut. I wanted to leave the hut for the home, and now I'm in the home and want to be at the hut!
Why, Baby?
My life feels loose and light and a bit tight at the seams. I feel wriggly all the time like something is writhing inside my body and I don't know what to do with it, like a worm baited to a hook, slippery with mucus. It's a bit gross to imagine. I am disgusting sometimes. The city reminds me of death—cigarettes, gin cocktails, and girls in short skirts. A man was dragging his cart of eggs with sticky fluff and feathers. An elderly woman with a cane and a blue bag that looked much too heavy for her. Two children dressed in blue tank tops and matching denim shorts. They had glasses and dark hair and I could not guess their pronouns.
Perhaps they wanted it this way. Ambiguity is more of a feeling than a thought. It is an impression, not an idea.
I want to belong to something; the only way through this sensation is to be accountable for every action. I know what I feel. I know what is true. My mind moves in a different direction because it wants things to be a certain way so badly. It needs a specific outcome. Control! My intuitive body understands the situation as my mind oscillates between manipulation and madness.
It is better to be a little crazy than contained.
I did not want to move that fat plant from one pot to another. It was a painful process. The dish broke, a few of the roots snapped, and the dirt made a mess of my living room. It was time-consuming and mucky and I could feel the plant screaming at me the entire time! What a thing to be so composed and ripped from the foundation of all you thought you knew! The poor philodendron was exposed as I prepared its new home and as I patted the earth down around it, I felt it sigh between my palms. I set it by the light and gave it a bit of water.
Take a rest, babe.
I'm not tired.
Do you need to be tired to take it easy?
My work at present is unseen. It is down deep inside who I am becoming. When the process is complete, I will know. I hope someone pats me down, dusts me off, and gives me something nice to drink afterward.
Photo source.
