šļø
Iāve always felt an almost defiant pull toward spaces not built for peaceāthe kinds of places where calm isnāt handed to you, but carved out by necessity. For years, it was bathrooms. Pink and white tiled sanctuaries where panic could unravel in private, where I could collapse and collect myself in the same breath. Those spaces hugged my chaos without asking questions.
Now I find myself inside a libraryāa new one, unfamiliar yet unnervingly tender. It doesnāt try to soothe me. It justĀ is, and in that quiet refusal to coddle, I feel at home. I am alone, yes, but not lonely. I am submerged, not lost. For the first time in a long time,
I can hear myself without interference. Iām beginning to meet myself where I am, instead of where I should be.
To the strange, unlikely rooms that have held meāthank you. You were never meant to be safe harbors, but somehow, you were.
4d ago
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š”
I awoke this morning in the gold light turning this way and that
thinking for a moment it was one day like any other.
But the veil had gone from my darkened heart and I thought
it must have been the quiet candlelight
that filled my room,
it must have been the first easy rhythm with which I breathed myself to sleep,
it must have been the prayer I said speaking to the otherness of the night.
And I thought this is the good day
you could meet your love,
this is the gray day someone close to you could die.
This is the day you realize
how easily the thread is broken
between this world and the next
and I found myself sitting up
in the quiet pathway of light,
the tawny close grained cedar
burning round me like fire
and all the angels of this housely
heaven ascending through the first
roof of light the sun has made.
This is the bright home
in which I live, this is where
I ask my friends to come,
this is where I want to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.
This is the temple of my adult aloneness
and I belong to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.
There is no house
like the house of belonging.
Mar 13, 2024
š
I have many Ideas. I ponder over them like an obsessive collector; organizing, re-organizing, packing them into words so the meaning is captured, transferable. Most of my transformative experiences are unexplainable - how does one capture the depth of a still, silent night? The whispering of leaves in warm summer breezes. Vague feelings of wholism while sitting in the grass, photosynthesizing like plant ancestors - a fish swims without direction. Many call it god but the church is alienating; the word massacred and butchered beyond the recognition of what it once meant.
One idea I have kept unmolested by the opinions of others, is that these holistic experiences in nature, with friends, live music shows, where the pulse of life beats strongly, are everything. An anchor point for a life well lived. Itās not enough to just be in nature, alchemizing the circumstance missing the key ingredient. A couple of friends and I went on a trip to where the ocean went on forever, unbroken horizon. We were down by the water, sunset and glistening, warmth of the sun and sand beneath my feet. But it was nothing more than looking. I did not have access to this other way of being - locked out, truthfully, by being eaten alive by the stress of exams and stewing in the feelings of being unlovable. It is somehow within you; the trees and ocean reflect it back to me. A quality of self brought out by sincerity and solitude. Itās everything, reflected in everything worthwhile.
Apr 17, 2024
š
Iām thinking about two quotes from things I read yesterday.
- Kaveh Akbar: āLove was a room that appeared when you stepped into it. Cyrus understood that now, and stepped.ā
- Lynne Tillman (writing about Nan Goldin): āA section titled "Empty Rooms," which lies at the center of the book, insists on what's lost or gone. Goldin is traveling, staying in hotel rooms, visiting friends, returning home and leav-ing. There's a portrait of a plumped pillow on a bed, rumpled sheets and two pillows that stand in for bodies that once lay there, a mirror that reflects light only on an ordinary bureau, golden paintings above a bed's backboard, and all are stage sets for memory.ā¦Hotel rooms usually mark transitoriness and freedom from daily life, but they're haunted by the many bodies that have passed through. The photographs are also haunted by her absent friends, some of whom have died and some of whom are far away. Temporary stations themselves, the empty rooms emphasize the inadequate hold anyone has on life, how it all just goes, finally.ā
I texted Jancie the Akbar quote. She reminded that love is a room you donāt even know youāre building.
And now Iām thinking about the rooms I have built without knowing, how many people have been in them. The world is very big and full of very many rooms. Itās amazing to see that now.
Jul 9, 2024
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