The sense of nothing

Sometime ago I googled if we, us, everyone, was experiencing Mercury Retrograde or did it only show up at my door. Winter was ending and the ocean on the horizon was gradually turning a deeper blue. A finger on light switch turning down the brightness. It is March, I will be different. I woke up early and packed my laptop into a bag along with my wallet and headphones. My bag was filled with cords wrapped around pens and notebooks from different years of my life. I went to coffee shops and opened my laptop to write. I order cappuccinos perfectly foamy and steamy. The barista’s decorated the foam with a flower, a swan, my lips full of milk. I put headphones in my ears to block out everyone. I hummed at a volume I thought was soft enough. I pictured myself standing up in the middle of the floor dancing and grabbing the person nearby to sing with me. I sat in a chair that was neither hard nor soft but just right for a coffee shop where they don’t want you to loiter too long but also where they want you to hang out and make the space look cool. I sat in a chair and wrote. I typed like my hands were on fire. The ocean grew darker in the distance. The baristas learned my name. My empty coffee cup looked like the Grand Canyon around the edges. Anything can become something else.

I think about women that walk around in circles until they find an answer. Heels caked in mud, their toes sinking. Circling and circling until they look up and are eye level with the grass. They stare across at the cows eating. They watch the horses gallop by in freedom all the while their feet are suspended in air grasping for the bottom. Fingernails clawing into the rocks attempting to push their breath upwards. Feet scraping against broken Earth trying to decide if we should push ourselves out or inside. There are moments when I feel like I am apart of every woman on Earth. That when I hold my hand to my stomach, to my womb, that my hands come away hot with the knowing that there is more than what was given to us. Women collect beauty like a crow. We make a nest out of anything shiny and lay atop of the things that will make us desirable, that will give us the answer. We pray that the shine will somehow absorb into our bones. Because being born ordinary or never being told that you are beautiful is one of the first deaths women experience. The first slice of skin. But then I think about the moon and how all women are drawn to her. The one shiny piece we can’t add to our nest but long after nonetheless. Looking upwards we begin to find our footing in the hole. We place our hands on the grass that the cows are laying in, we begin to push ourselves up.

Spring just started. It’s the beginning of Holy Week. Entering this week while being 33 feels dramatic, seems like I’ve been crafting my own version of a tomb for a year. I’ve reached three months of sobriety. I see myself as a domino that got pushed off the table. A player that got pushed out of bounds and must start back at the beginning. A seed pushing through the ground on its way to becoming a tree. I realized that there is much hidden behind the stories I tell myself. There’s a river open on the other side of the dam. On the other side of the frozen ground is a hole where the soil is warm. I stick my fingers down into the ground further, further until I have no choice but to allow my arm and then my chest and then my head be consumed by the Earth. I wrap myself in goodness because it’s available and there’s an abundance of it. It’s on the other side. It’s on the next page. Has worrying ever helped you? Has fear ever served you? You must turn the page.

In love and peace,

T ❤