This morning, the sky is painted in muted tones of rainbow. Striping across the sky (itself?) subtly whispering buongiorno as I unfold onto my yoga mat. I wake up hungry. I’m not sure what for.
Dear reader, I have pending drafts. I have words that sound nice, sound cool, even. But I don’t know if it’s what my heart wants to say. What does my heart want to say?
Who am I to write to you about aliveness?
I still run, I still hide. I still opt out of what God is asking of me. I still struggle to hear God, to feel God. Who am I to write to you about any of it?
I am gently reminding myself that I promised no one that I’m an expert on the subject. In fact, I’ve repeatedly stated that I’m a novice, an apprentice, a student. And a pretty inconsistent one, at that. I’m impatient with God, I’m impatient with my inner self, with this moment, with Life.
I wish God were as loud as the foods I use to numb. As the thick chocolate biscuits I bought the other day and opened on my way home in the rain. I wish God were as loud as the music that fills my ears so I don’t have to deal with the silence. I wish God were as loud as the narrator in my mind, the one who tells me people won’t care what I have to say. I remind it that I must do whatever it is that I do in honour of my heart first and foremost. It cares not. I wish God would care not and grab me by the collar, and say, Listen here, you. Put your phone down. Take a deep fucking breath. Pray.
I was speaking to a friend on the phone the other day. This friend has a name for their inner narrator. I’ve come to realise that one of my inner narrators is a man, and his name is Hector. The moodboard of Hector is evil nerd demonic genius energy. He’s kind of got this sexy geeky vibe, but he’s also really insecure and like, sweats a lot. I think he’s a medical student, or perhaps he’s already a well established surgeon. A cardiologist maybe, I don’t know. He’s for sure been in the operating room and said Scalpel? before, with his palm open, awaiting the scalpel. I say this because Hector’s energy is very clampy. He clamps me. He shuts me up. He has all of this sterilised metal equipment that he uses to keep my mouth shut, he’s boring as all hell, he’s so obsessed with all things Safe and Control. I feel like this energy could be really hot in the bedroom but anyway what do I know, it’s not like Hector and I have ever made love, he’s a figment of my imagination…………………
Anyway,
I don’t know how to pray. I don’t pray because I don’t believe anyone is listening. Whenever I start praying, I feel so uncomfortable. I feel awkward for even trying. I imagine all the spirit guides and my ancestors watching me with eyes slightly widened and dotting to and from each other, like … she’s doing it wrong, ha ha, weird. It’s not hard, human, this isn’t rocket science.
I want to pray. I want to feel more consistently connected to God, to my inner self, to the energy of love.
Although I don’t always feel connected to the energy of love, one thing’s for sure; no matter what I do, I am not alone. I am consistently accompanied by the belief that I have done the wrong thing. No matter whether I follow my intuition, my heart, God, or whether I succumb to my inevitable and imperfect humanness ; one thing I know for sure, my hand will be held by this gargantuan monster :
Wrongness.
I oscillate, I pendulate, I swing, I swing dance. I flip a switch. I slice the moon down the middle, eat one half and save the rest for later. I mingle with flames in the pits of hell and I swim in pools of light in the kingdom of heaven. I water fast for three days and then shove fistfuls of chocolate in my mouth, knees on the floor, the kitchen cupboard my altar. I unfollow everyone on Instagram, I follow back everyone and their uncle, and their uncle’s neighbour. I empty my closet and declare myself a minimalist. I hoard, I’m ascetic, I’m punk rock. I’m empty, I’m overflowing. I’m sterile, I’m pregnant with octuplets. I’m a clam that won’t open, I’m a starfish that stretches farther than eyes can see. I’m the dark, I’m the sun. I’m a seed that won’t start, I’m a flower unfurling. I’m a starless night, I’m bright. I’m wrong. I’m wrong. I’m right, I’m right.
Over a year ago, I’m in Holland with my sister; we’re going to visit a friend she’s interviewing for her blog. This friend lives in a yurt, and my sister Beni is interviewing her mostly regarding her alternative style of living. The yurt is beautiful and styled exquisitely, but the reason I’m bringing up this story is because this friend had just adopted a dog named Bus. Bus would bark and bark and keep a distance. I felt drawn to Bus for whatever reason, although he would never come anywhere near. I wanted to give Bus love. I tried to offer whatever love I could simply through my presence. Her friend said : he really wants love, but he’s afraid of it.
Do you know those moments in life where you can feel Life and God and the aforementioned spirit guides all looking at you with raised eyebrows like … you’re getting this, right? It’s clear, yeah? Because we orchestrated a lot for you to be here for this dog to be here for all of this to be happening now so let’s just all make sure that you’re seeing this and that it’s clicking and that you know what’s going on? Wheeewwww, thank Us. Let’s take 5, team. We’ve done some good work here. *spiritual stretching commences*
I really want love, but I’m afraid of it. I keep myself at a distance (in the name of doing what’s right for me) so that you don’t have to love me, and so I don’t have to love you. In this no-mans-land, I am safe. Being seen and loved feels like too much a lot of the time. I rarely believe it when it comes into my experience. I often feel numb to it. I notice the numbness especially in friendships, in family, and when presented with social or creative opportunities. This presence of I feel nothing with regards to something beautiful. And sometimes it’s not I feel nothing, sometimes it’s I feel gross, this doesn’t feel right, this is dangerous, this is Wrong. So, it’s weird, really. Because it’s these feelings that have kept me in cycles of pushing healthy people and expansive situations away.
And,
I have patterns of people-pleasing embroidered into the tapestry of my being, and I abandon myself to do what I think you want or what I think you think is best. I fawn like it’s the next best thing since sliced bread. I ignore my capacity, my natural pace and my internal guidance in order to do what I think I should do, even if I don’t feel ready or if I simply don’t want to. In this expression, doing what’s right for me gets laughed off and, once again, labelled as Wrongness. These two mechanisms existing alongside each other have simultaneously been a pain in my ass and been exceptionally useful in strengthening my discernment.
I hate that there’s a middle way between these two states (and in general), because the middle way feels tremendously uncomfortable for someone who is so well-versed in extremes. The middle way feels slow, and loving, and communicative, and correct. It is abundant in compassion, and although the image I get when I think of the middle way is a taut tight rope upon which I must balance, if I fall, I don’t fall to my death. No. Instead, I fall into a beautiful pile of the lushest and bounciest and loveliest cushions of all time, of all different colours. They’re so soft, and they whisper I love you you’re doing an excellent job whenever I inevitably plummet into the embrace of the delightful pillowy underworld. Only to rise again, in search of this middle way that I’ve heard so much about and clearly haven’t yet mastered.
I’m repotting a plant today. She’s done it, team, she’s grown roots. I’ve named her Betta after my Zia Elisabetta who donated this portion of plant to me, but the plant reminds me of me a little. I like how Life works, the magic of it. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this plant is growing roots at the same time that I’m starting to do that myself. A friendly green mirror. As I write these words, I peer over the counter to where the plant is still resting in a glass bottle and I notice, for the first time, the label that’s on the glass bottle. Angelica. My middle name.
I’m putting myself out there, reader. It’s scary but fruitful.
I’m attending events and reciting my poems in both English and Italian and I’m meeting new people and I’m trying to look and act normal whatever that means when I first meet them. I make eye contact and then worry if it’s too much eye contact so I look away every now and again, and then I wonder if I should smile less but then I look far too serious and I just want to get it right.
But I don’t, and I won’t, and regardless, I’m loved through it; I receive hugs and kisses and praise and questions and curious looks and introductions and subtle nods and I don’t have to worry about how I’m standing or what my eyes are doing. I don’t have to have a drink and I don’t have to smoke a cigarette, I can just bring myself, my unique self in front of these other unique selves and that’s when we can really sing and that’s when we can really dance.
I cannot bend myself into shapes that are shiny but not true.
I am not the fork in the matrix.
I am a gentle being and I live in my gentle body
and I love the things I love
and sometimes I love the things I don’t love
and sometimes I don’t love the things I love
And I have questions about it all
Always more questions than answers
As much as it makes me grumpy, I’m glad that God isn’t loud. But, paradoxically, God is so loud in his own way. God is loud in how he and everything else unseen raises their eyebrows. God is loud in the feeling in my body and my heart when I scour through the files upon files of beautiful footage that scream in their own quiet sort of way, make something beautiful with me. God is loud in his holding. God is loud in the feeling of his love. God will not blare music into my ears when what I need is peace, nor shove my emotions down when what I need is release. God does not advise me to distract, to numb, to avoid. God is the space I can rest in when I choose not to do those things. And God is always waiting. God God God, we get it. But listen, I need God more than ever right now. I always have, but I need him in a more active way. I need him in a consistent, committed way. I need his guidance. I need his quiet. I need his wholeness. I need his nudging, his softening, his cleansing. I need his simplicity. I need you, God.
I’m glad that God suggests that I brew a hot tea, and put some sweet potatoes in the oven, and go for a photo-walk in the early morning. I’m glad that God nudges me accordingly so I can cross paths with people who make me cackle, people who make being together and opening feel easy. I’m glad that God puts people into my life who are patient with my patterns and who want to figure life out with me. I’m glad that God made me obsessed with colour, with shapes, with fragments, with beauty. I’m glad that God guides me back to my art and to my practises whenever I go too long without them and I start to feel like something other than myself. I’m glad that God is soft and patient, and not stern and punishing. I’m glad that God’s God, because can you imagine if Hector were God? The word you’re looking for is shit-show, reader. What a shit-show that would be.