To failed attempt on Friday and Saturday to write the love letter. Still, coming back here early to write, after three attempts at getting back to meditations, sleeping with two tiger’s eyes next to my body, feeling the strong heart beat beneath my palms as I lay there, deciding where to place my hands. Side by side, they don’t belong. They belong on the body. But where? Usually next to the thighs, but that time has passed. They belong across the chest.
I rise to sit, not quite finishing the full hour. 41 minutes and body cramps up.
Catching up with a dear friend, seeing the divergence, but also alignment of doing what we are good at. No more looking at others and judging the other’s choices. Instead, honoring ourselves, focusing on utilizing our talents.
I recount the last two months of rewiring outdated and incorrect belief system. Why I love to feed people. My preferred love language. Because I have been hungry since in utero. Not wanting to take from the mother who doesn’t have enough. Not wanting to take up space and fill my bowl before the rest. Why the addiction, Gabor Mate asks. What is the pain? What is the addiction trying to soothe? Feeling hungry and unsatisfied. Unsatiated, I dreamed of getting access to a closet full of food that I could tap into. How is this different from my father’s obsession with food? Having to have three square meals daily. Wanting steak for breakfast. Origin story is different. Was his starting in utero too? Feeling hungry, while having to take care of others first. So when we feed, it’s indulgent and damaging. Not sure how to modulate. Never been taught that you have to feed yourself first. Always. Take that sip. Chew on that morsel.
Do I love others, in the way I wish I was loved? Do I try to feel the gap, the gap that I let define my life?
And so, as I pack my lunch, I place the mixed rice, kimchi without garlic and lettuce with olive oil. Warm from the microwave, filling the quarter of the white bowl. In silence. In stillness, I eat. Not hurrying or thinking of anything else. I sit and slowly allot some rice into the spoon before putting it inside my mouth. Feeling for every grain and smell filling my nostrils. Looking at bakers ingredients and recipes online. Gluten free flour for baking I think of buying. It’s got chickpea, legume my other friend is allergic too.
How we have to look under the hood to see what is underneath. It looks like something else, but there could be other things inside. Looks can be deceiving. Yet, looks are everything. The balancing act.
Laundry spins to expel water. Surprising me with the decibel it creates, and I hope I don’t wake anyone. I don’t want to be inconsiderate. I hang out the laundry in patio to dry. Clean the sides of hiking shoes from yesterday using the old toothbrush head I just took off the electric handle. And I am surprised to find the brown dirt marks become white against the bristle’s brush.
I turn on my laptop, to check work laptop. What am I doing, I ask myself. I must write, the song beckons inside. Now that I have cracked opened a book, and read one chapter. The blade that is my writing utensil is sharpened just a little. To enable these words to fill the page. Not perfect. Not even good enough. But better than before, with the knife’s edge. Dropping the tablet. Learning the lesson of what happens when you are not focusing on the urgent and important.
And so, I sit here. Next to the window, sitting on the seat not reserved for me, but I chose to take up space in. Claiming the spot. Ownership often belongs not to the claimant but the one occupying the space.
This is a love letter for sharpening the blade of your instrument. Mine is reading books. Being outside with nature, and creating the space to see myself reflected in those around me.
Learning that I must feed myself. Nourish. Prioritize. Do what is right and left for me. Serve all of me.