The Perfect Wor[l]d - 05
Amazing as it sounds, I woke up this morning with an amazing topic in my mind. It was clear, it was detailed, funny, charming, and interesting. And then, by the time I came back from the loo, it was gone. I flushed my amazing idea down the drain. I am wondering, if sitting here now, in bed, open laptop, coffee on my right, journal, pens and reading glasses, would help. As of now, nothing is coming up. I have watched, in the meantime, a video on YouTube to keep me updated on my star sign situation for the month, filled my journal with notes on planning and successes, and motivational quotes to keep myself centred on the path I want my life to go, and spell checked and corrected a mailshot I have been sent as a test. The work of a writer, the craft. And English, is not even my mother tongue!
Then I got angry reading some posts online about my ‘other’ profession, the one of being a psychotherapist. They make me angry because therapists are supposed to be empathic, supportive, generous, and non-judgemental. Gosh, I have read some narrow-minded criticism drenched in judgement by fellow colleagues and directed to other colleagues who do not belong to ‘their’ group, for not following ‘their’ theoretical approach. Not a behaviour I would expect nor like from a therapist! I wrote my piece, stated my point, closed Facebook.
I find more difficult writing today when I compare it to yesterday. Here I am, still in bed with a now cold cup of coffee next to me. The sun is high and shining and warm outside, that kind of warmth that makes you close your eyes and savour the smells of drying fresh cut grass. There is a gentle buzzing of faraway cars and the comforting regularity of a train. And there is an empty shack, out there, large, facing the garden and complete with a table, a bench, and chairs. It calls me and I am still here, unmoveable. I have to remind myself of how much I desire what I am doing, of my why, my reason for wanting to change my mind (and life) and put up an intimate fight with that petrified and screaming monkey which inhabits part of my brain. But I am a lucky person. I feel very grateful now for the rapidly decreasing level of the battery of my laptop, which invites me to stop, plug in and in the meantime clean up, have a shower, make some fresh coffee and then: go out!
The scent of summer, in a lip balm. I am not going to tell you what product it is, because I don’t want to endorse anything, … sod it, it’s the Nivea Hydro Care SPF 15 lip balm. I feel I am addicted to it. It contains Octyldodecanol, Hydrogenated Rapeseed Oil, Cera Alba, Cetyl Palmitate, Ethylhexyl Methoxycinnamate, Ricinus Communis Seed Oil, Polyglyceryl-3 Diisostearate, Butyl Methoxydi-benzoylmethane, Butyrospermum Parkii Butter, Octocrylene, Parfum, Aqua, Glycerin, Persea Gratissima Oil, Simmondsia Chinensis Seed Oil, Aloe Barbadensis Leaf Juice Powder, BHT, Limonene, Linalool, Citronellol. It could contain a deadly mixture of kale, wood chippings, shingles, gunpowder, and petrol, as far as I am concerned, I would still use it. I have a confession to make: sometimes I simply sniff it. I don’t think it’s the Persea gratissima since avocado smells and tastes of nothing. I’d rather believe it’s the smell of the Butyrospermum, if only to make a joke on what I put on my lips, or the paradox contained in its name regarding the life of a young cow (only a botanist might understand me here, sorry, I feel I lost you all now). Anyway, it’s the Karite Tree. I think all sun protecting creams and oils contain Karite Tree, or the product of its seeds: shea butter.
It takes me back to a beach, when I was a kid, and not just a kid. Newly morosa (that relational stage in Italy when you are not just ‘together’ anymore and not engaged yet) I would spend days just lying in the sun, oiled to perfection, smelling of some strange exotic concoction, dangling silver ankle bracelet de rigueur, sun glasses, and a lifetime of desires, expectations and daydreaming in my head. I learned the perfect "cocky-I-am-not-smiling-like-ever" face that was so late 80's / early 90's. A couple of years before, in the summer of 1987, I remember I just finished college in the UK. I flew back home with all my belongings and moved directly to ‘the beach’. The beach, to us, was the Marina where our boat was moored and where we were provided with swimming pools, bars, restaurants, pizzerias, live music, and open cinema. Not a grain of sand. There, I felt sophisticated, interesting, and attractive with my pudenda barely covered while ostentatiously reading a series of essays on international politics and the Palestinian situation and scouting for a potential boyfriend. And at that age anyone would have been perfect to fall in love with, as long as he had a sailing boat, long hair, could read and avoid my parents. In those years, yes, I was into politics, and diplomacy and philosophical chatting on big issues with this swelling hope of changing the world, while smoking Lucky Strike. I was sure my life would have amounted to something, I would have counted, I would have left a mark.
Little did I know that is 2019 now, I don’t feel I have left any discernible mark, but I am ready to change my life. Again.
I am sitting outside, in the sun. There is little empty kids pool on my left, books - my eternal companions - all around me. No children then, no children now. But the same desire, eagerness, deep awareness of that Inner Truth that tells me that I have built enough, I have worked hard enough, I have learned a lot and it is the time, for me, to reap. My environment smells of Nivea lip balm and more fresh coffee. I feel, sitting here, that I have everything I need. And I don’t want to leave. The difference, now, is that I don’t actually have to leave, because no one is asking me to. I can sit at this table, writing and eating fresh tomatoes in garlic and olive oil, and Parma ham accompanied by fresh soft bread, and all around me: silence. Just my imagination. In front of me, outside of the shack, there is a garden and tall trees. But I might as well be in Bali, drinking coconut water, listening to soft deep bells and the humming of the woods, while around me duplicates of Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love meditate and smile ‘with their liver’. I could be anywhere.
And this is why I write. Even if I write about writing.
I am aware that today this post sounds different. I was listening this morning to this monthly tarot reading for my zodiac sign, the sign that embodies freedom: Libra. I am not interested in judgements or comments about my interests. This is what makes me who I am; and in this journey of mine to make writing my main focus and not just ‘something I do’, I have decided to feel free to write about anything. Including zodiac signs, Celtic mythology, song-lines, and New Age. Anything that makes me who I am. So, I was saying: I was listening to this monthly Tarot reading for Libra by Nicholas Ashbaugh, and he was talking about the Maze and how sometimes we feel stuck when trying to decipher the Maze and in looking for a way out even before we get in. We have to have everything panned out before we even start a venture. What if, instead, we don’t get into the Maze, but walk around the wall? What if we were able to look at the Maze from a different perspective: we could go under by excavating a tunnel, fly over, or avoid it entirely. I believe that for some years I have been stuck outside of this huge door with written ‘Beware: Maze!’ above trying to devise a way out. I can see a version of me sitting there, outside, making maps, contriving options and directions, and pit stops and support.
I sat there, waiting. Waiting for the fear to subside, to be filled with courage, for someone to push me in, to be strong enough, to have enough money, enough time, enough space, the perfect space! To be secure, assisted; knowledgeable enough, acknowledged enough, wanted enough, old enough, thin enough, good enough to step in.
Perfectly enough.
And now I have decided to get in, just to give it a peak. And you know what?
There is no fucking maze, no fucking wall, no fucking way out because even the way in is a deception.
I am in.
I am.
And this is my adventure.
© mtomat 2019 - written on 04.07.19 - no reproduction without permission.
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