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Freedom has overtaken me

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)

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the day was twenty nine of February, the year was 2020, the world was fourteen sleeps away from locking down into a global pandemic and their conversation was final: “let’s sell”. let’s sell and use the money to travel. to change our bodies. to freeze our eggs. to retreat. to expand. to build separate homes. to drink expensive wine. to learn and to love again. or to learn to love again. or to pay for this coffee.

the day was twenty nine of June, the year was still 2020, over half-million people have died on a global pandemic and their conversation was final: “you forgot a pair of panties in the washing-machine”.

she though it would be hard to leave. one of the characteristic flaws of her mind is to exaggerate how fragile she might be; to assume that life would be impossible far earlier than in fact it would be.

“toss them” — she replied referring to the pair of panties, without any other metaphorical meaning.

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d e p l e t e d

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. 

The year is 2020. The month is May and a lot has changed over the past 11 months. The one thing that didn’t change is the capacity they have to deplete her energy. She is tired.
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future overflow

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.

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stay still, just be

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.

today I saw you as a grow woman, defending a thesis at university and standing by what you believe our society needs. I couldn’t be more proud of the woman you are and I wish nothing more than continuous growth and self-awareness to you. in a family of strong, caring and independent women, you are surely on the front line to make us all proud. I will always cheer for you, for us. I love you, never stop shining
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sunday diary

butterflies in her dreams, taste of home away from home in a fresh morning coffee, smooth and smily eyes, cheerful-heartbeats-in-her-lounge, laughter and intimacy on high bar stools. a departure announcement splits her day in half. bitter sweet, they say. a few tears and the melancholy of warm despair is back, an old haunting friend that gracelessly visits her on departures.

it’s the cost of exploring foreign lands, she recalls. in these moments, her heart brings back memories that are not from specific people or from specific places, but from a feeling of her hair flowing free on a bike ride on a homey air, a familiar smell of threes, the bright colors of different seasons. she misses belonging somewhere in a rooted way.

in the beginning of her travelings, she never knew if she was chasing something or running from something. perhaps both. perhaps trying to find and to lose herself at the same time. not anymore. she knows she was never lost. the melancholy of the departures is the spreading of her roots across oceans, seeding parts of herself in others, blooming by the energy gifted to her by others. belonging grounded wherever her heart lives.
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it is not a bank holiday, but it should be

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.

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still | it’s a new one

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 least favourite time of the week is Sunday right before sunset, still. all the lovely people going back to their homes, the blue solitude on the partying moments and the urge to be held tight between 4 and 6pm. then a book, a film and when the sun finally sets, her body loosen up and the new week’s excitement begin.

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.

her favourite word is extraordinary, it’s a new one. deeply rooted, but free. looking into the eyes of another and getting fascinated by what is found there. each moment is a fresh opportunity to honor the courage it takes to re-find/refine herself.
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