The writer sat down at this late hour to examine blog statistics and perform some other technical activities of which I am entirely unaware. Meanwhile, the poet sat down with four cigarettes, a compilation of classical masterpieces, and read through some posts while the cats slept on fresh laundry…and in the bed, Max the dog plopped his head on a pillow with a long, guilty sigh of utter bliss, sneaking a peek with one eye to make sure he wasn’t going to be yelled at.
I simply sat down with candles and chocolates, and read myself through the journey of words I’ve been sharing here for some time.
I met the ego and the soul, and watched them battle on the screen, taking turns to bow to each other…not in defeat, but with humble acknowledgment and reverence at being bested in a game of swords or a dance.
I met the temper and the sorrow, the hope, the passion, the fierce determination and humble surrender. I met all the insults and praises, the pleas and commands, the flow and the awkward trespasses into both melancholy and persistence. I met love and anger, the peace and the fury of successes and failures. I met the pest and the professor, the psychic, the preacher, the psychologist, the goddess, the photographer, the mother, the muse, the tyrant, the angel, the executioner, the healer and the lover…
…the dark one and the light one and all the ones in between…in pink and grey and shades of blue, orange, yellow and green like a field of flowers, like fire, like storms, like winter and spring and summer, like the earth and the sea. I met the opinionated girl who jumps to help and argue, and the quiet one who simply listens. I met the mystery and the revelation, the questions and the ever-changing list of answers.
As the writer and poet kept doing their thing, I sat back with a smile. My journey is a symphony…better yet, an ambitious, impertinent, humble and painfully honest bundle of mistakes.
So many mistakes…weeks, months…years of mistakes in so many words. Some beautiful, some not so beautiful; some gentle, some harsh. And many other things too.
But in all of them, there is always, I promise, an infinite tenderness. And I’m not sure how to describe this tenderness in words (especially as the writer and poet are busy at this very moment)…
… because tenderness is a quality of silence, and yet, this kind of silence is a kind of music too. It’s both known and unknown. It is both a confession and a boasting of a necessary greatness and joy. It is both singular and infinite. It occupies a space yet always expands into something else that is not emptiness but somehow, inexplicably, its own dimension that is bound and also knows no bounds. It must create yet also stands still. It is free only when it embraces. It’s complicated and very simple…an unspoken understanding that often speaks.
So who am I you might ask?
I can only offer you this…
…that underneath whatever shade of ego or soul I choose to reveal or inadvertently show you, my mistakes too, like yours, come from a place…this place…our common place of infinite tenderness.
(I just learned how to spell inadvertently!)
And if none of what I just wrote, unsupervised by the writer or poet makes any sense, then perhaps this will explain it all much better:
“The future is as irrevocable
as the rigid yesterday.
There’s not a thing that is not a silent letter
of the eternal undecipherable writing
whose book is time.
Who left home has already returned.
Our life is the future and travelled path.
Nothing dismisses us. Nothing leaves.
Do not surrender. The prison is bereft
Of light, its fabric is incessant iron,
But in some turn of your confinement
there could be an oversight, a cleft.
The path is as fatal as an arrow.
But in the cracks, God is stalking.”