freedom has overtaken me I
had run ahead of it for years
along an interesting but
narrow road obeyed at least
half the rules imposed by
lovers children a house a
political position now out
of breath probably I’m stuck
freedom has hold of my jacket
won’t let go I am alone
Grace Paley (2008)
The year is 2020. The month is May. The day is 64. Sixty-four days in the COVID-19 era of lockdown. Her left eye opened around 6:17am, while the right eye was sort of stuck together — she once again forgot to remove the contact lenses. As her left hand reached out for her phone and headphones, her right hand stroked her neck — still stiff. Headphones are on and she is ready for her morning meditation, thinking of the future self, letting go of the past, being aware of the present moment in this space. Imagining the distance between her ears in space. Visualizing her own heart pumping fast on a dark-beautiful space in between her chest bones and her mattress. Making pancakes with her kids on a sunny morning, the massive glass doors open to the backyard where the dog is chasing birds and her partner is pouring fresh coffee while cheekily teasing her about a rather enduring client review left on her website the night before. There's laughter, a bit of chaos and a lot of love. Laughter that slowly fades into a grey blur of her past — the familiar feeling of guilt for finding herself happy. Guilt for feeling happy. Guilt for visualizing how she wants her life to be. She is still, nothing in her body is moving, her mind is wondering in between the future and the past. She caughts herself and comes back to the present. Breathes. The voice on the headphone tells her to rest her right hand onto her heart, to feel it, to feel the energy around it. She sees light, a bright light coming straight out of her heart. The past again creeps into the light, telling her she is a bad person for working on her healing, for feeling good. The meditation ends and she keeps her eyes closed. Giving into the past for another couple of minutes before leaving the house.
you are in the faint line
between her courage and
her blind waiting
she doesn’t need you to fill empty parts of her. she’s full on her own. she wants you to overflow her — together in deluge you’ll cruise throughout deep and dazzling connection rivers.
owning a heart gives her such a push-pull feeling, wanting to break open and shut down simultaneously. the goosebumps. the tingling. the ache to run. the desire to deeply connect. stay still.
from a place of doing to a place of been. change. growth. lean back. trust. let be.
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| Girl With Balloon, Banksy | Photo by @ericjamesward Berlin, Germany |
you were so tiny and funny when you first got home. I could play and care for you as I had plenty of experience playing with dolls. the way I tought you how to walk and the way you laughed at my silly songs still make me smile. your hair was always messy and you were always getting into trouble, eating soap or hiding yourself under the beds. the way you cried when I brought my first boyfriend home was cute, like you were protecting me from getting hurt, I felt loved by your jealousy. you were only 5.
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| Artwork from Karen DoloreZ |
events of impact, acts that deliberately shift the course of history, hardship affairs, misfortunes, episodes of triumph, grand slam and extreme joy make it to the calendar
she had it all, three hundred and sixty five days ago, when holding her open heart and exposed backbone, she spelled the words that would set them free.
it is not a bank holiday today, but it should be.
her favourite color is yellow, still. the sun setting behind the hills, her grandmother’s refrigerator memories, her parent’s first kitchen, her childhood home, her favourite sweater. little daisies on her hair, her best friend’s aura.
her favorite self-help tool is creativity, she is rekindling herself to it. crafting magic out of her tragedies and using it to heighten her story, to bring her closer to love, to her nature, to what really matters. not further away from it. not anymore.
tramela ainda existe ou estou louca?
nadie dijo que iba a ser fácil, repite ella seis veces antes de voltearse otra vez sobre la cama. la cama. la cama que ella misma compró hace un año. las sábanas que ella misma eligió y pagó con su propio dinero. las almohadas. ahhh como son buenas sus almohadas de astronauta rojas. su lindo, apachurrable y confortable par de almohadas (el perro insiste en acostarse contra las almohadas, a ella no le gusta). le gusta el olor de naranja con pimienta que conserva en la habitación. le gustan sus mesitas de luz, su mesita de pié con los cajones de cartón, sus objetos de decoración brancos, rojos, negros y rosas. ella misma hizo todo. le gusta su habitación.
no le gusta el calor. el calor de febrero de buenos aires es insoportable. no le gusta porque casi no puede respirar. abre las ventanas de toda la casa. falta el aire. falta el aire. nadie dijo que iba a ser fácil, pensa. pensa esto y cambia otra vez de posición en la cama – la cama que ella misma eligió, su cama, su imensa, confortable y adorable cama. mira hacia la maleta, vacia. piensa. la vida. vacia. maleta. la vida ya no entra en la maleta. necesitaría unas siete de estas. que fiaca tener cosas, piensa. que lindo tener cosas, llora.
recién pudo decorar la contraseña del wifi. recién aprendió el nombre de la portera. se culpa por no prestar atención a los detalles. nadie dijo que iba a ser fácil, suspira mirando a la foto con todos los amigos. mira la maleta vacia. mira los amigos llenos. mira el reloj. una de la mañana. a la mierda, piensa. nadie dijo que. nadie dijo que iba. apaga la lampara. duerme
Tramela 