utsah
The girl did not choose to be in love with such a person; how could she? The heart operates separately from the head. Contained in the same body—this wrapper of muscles, nerves, and skin—they communicate like siblings. Some days, working in tandem and communicate well. On other days, bickering and being petty! Each wants their own way, perhaps for selfish reasons.
The heart can be selfish, too. The ego will always be there; you must learn how to function with it. Work together! The Mother claps her hands and says it many times over. The setting is different each time, though the message remains the same: we need each other. Contradictions make us stronger.
It is written in the body: you are solid and also susceptible to change. Shapeshift under the demand. Pursue for the sake of progress. Adapt to stay alive! The Mother repeats the mantras, and the head and heart bob along, humming a little tune and analyzing what it means.
The girl did not choose to be in love with this man. The circumstances arose, and she was in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on your perspective.
She had been confused. Her hair was drawn back in a bun with a gold pin holding it in place. What was she wearing? She can't recall it. She had been tired. She'd eaten an orange on the way to her appointment, and her hands had been sticky. She stopped at a cafe for a croissant and a
saved the croissant and used the wet napkin on each finger and the webbing of her thumb.
She hated being dirty! She washed her hair every three days and scrubbed behind her ears. She checked her navel for lint and rubbed her body in oil each night before bed. She preferred coconut cream but would settle for almond as her second choice.
It was good to always keep a backup.
He arrived and she remembers his outfit exactly. Black shirt and pants. His trousers were rolled up to display muscular calves. He was wearing white shoes with blue laces and a pair of sunglasses that reflected her face back at her.
Do I always look this worried? She assumed as he stared at her. She smiled to counter the angst written across her face. She enjoyed problem-solving, though she was late for a work meeting and could not figure out how to reload her transit pass. The instructions were in a language she could not read. The girl could have walked home, but she was tired. Her feet hurt, and it was over thirty degrees! She was not used to such conditions. Her country was cold and damp. This city was dry and hot.
So, so hot, do you like it? The man asked her as he helped her load her card with two hundred lira.
The girl nodded and smiled. He had nice eyes, this man. Grey, though his hair was very dark. It was an unusual combination. This was a warning she did not observe at the time.
Where do you go now? The man asked. His English was not good. Their conversation had no rhythm. It was like playing tennis with someone still learning how to hold the racket. The girl spoke too fast, and he touched her arm, slowly, please. I do not understand so well.
People were always asking her to slow down.
She didn't like it, and she tried to accommodate.
He was tall, though most people were taller than the girl. He stood a little too close to her as they spoke, but she didn't mind. He touched her arm again. Do you want to have dinner? This weekend? Are you free?
All she could do was smile and nod.
A different sort of person would not have agreed to the arrangement. The girl was curious. And perhaps a bit bored. She had no friends in this city, and the Danse classes she attended with locals and travelers such as herself did not seem like the place to joust and make plans to go for a coffee. The man was direct, and the girl liked that about him. She preferred people who told you where they stand. She liked to be challenged, provoked, and perhaps a bit rattled by each encounter. How does the egg split without a bit of violence? Cocoons are torn by the butterfly, these delicate and whimsical insects who must also thrust their way out!
Leave the eggs alone, the girl's father had told her and her younger sisters. Jays had laid beautiful blue eggs in a nest in their crab apple tree. The eggs were no bigger than a thumb. There were six of them. The girl liked to take a bucket and flip it over to stand on so she could peer into the nest. The tree was not very tall; it was miniature, and the nest was within arm's reach. Unfortunately for the mama bird, she did not consider the threats that moved on the ground. Mesmerized by the pretty speckled eggs and how tiny they appeared nestled between the sticks, the girl rubbed the tip of her pinky finger on one wee egg. She did not understand the power of scent and was stricken to see that the mama bird never returned to her nest.
You cannot undo what’s been done, her father said. She cried into her supper and went to bed hungry and despaired. I deserve this, she thought; I killed the babies. Six of them.
We each experience little deaths like this within ourselves every single day.
The meeting with the man was a little death the girl could have avoided, like the bird eggs.
But she chose not to.
Do we choose who we love? Do we choose what we long for? Do we choose our desire?
Dharma is the idea that we are each born with a destiny: a fate chosen by a Source with force. There are deviations to every story. There are ways to activate the cellular body so that we realize our full potential. Manifest your dreams: a common trope of the twenty-first century. The girl spent too much time reconsidering the reflections of her heart. Her mind loved catching the thing and turning it upside down like laundry in the dryer or a cat with a mouse by its tail. The heart saw through the games and stated simply: this is what it is; I want what I want.
Damn it, the head would gasp. You’re ruining the plans!
And the heart, it did not care. It went on humming its song and thundering wildly in its container. It did not care about the cage because it knew it radiated outward, extending more than the three feet humans said it could. It is a magnificent organ, the heart. All you have to do is trust it.
The heart is a box full of feathers plucked from the wings of a bird that was scorched by the sunlight. Dusted by gold, blessed by the Divine. It is a chamber where water fountains froth at the mouth with pearls, rubies, and sapphires. These precious stones where lost lovers have whispered their sweet and simple yearnings for the deceased. The heart is a wide open room with long windows. The curtains are satin and flutter in the breeze like a bride's gown. The floors are wood, and the clatter of women’s heels ring and chime: let us dance! It is a party with swooping skirts and hair loose at bare shoulders.
The woman has locked the man in this chamber, and only she has the key! She put it in the pocket of the outfit she cannot remember on the day they met. He is settled and content in her heart, and she is a bit nervous about the affair.
Where is the key? The girl bids the mind, help me! I want to choose, he needs to leave, I can’t take the ache any longer!
The heart giggles; it is a bit of a trickster, you know.
Is it selfish to love like this? To hold someone captive?
Is it love or something else?
Photo source.
