She’s lost her way, moaned the mattress wearily.
Where are her arms? asked the solid floor.
The window was closed to all possibilities.
But the floor sprung sweetly under the weight of her frame.
The light smiled softly, the air rushed madly,
And she laughed at the room,
In complete abandonment.
Today I climb a mountain on this remote Greek Island. Beyond the source of the waterfalls, lizards cling to the cliff faces. I test each hand hold before I give my weight to the mountain. The hard volcanic rock has been broken into sharp and unstable shards by the winter elements. Only the lichen-covered rocks are stable. I pick my path. The sky is racing past. A rush of adrenalin hits me. I consider the possibility that I could die here. Why not? It’s a beautiful place where I am completely at peace.
I see a species of ants that I know well from the Australian bush. We have history. Once I saw them carry away bones from a snake carcass. I’ve stood barefoot on their mounds for a dare. They don’t sting but their meat-eating preference makes this a good test of endurance. Sure, it’s crazy, but I had time and it was the days before I carried a laptop and had 305 Facebook friends. Today I feel only completeness. This is not an Italian drama. Perhaps it’s a Greek tragedy? Except there is no family gathering at my feet. I’m grateful. They need a wash.
The village is a walk through ferns, following a goat track. I heard the goat herder’s wild animal cries at sunrise and the passing sounds of bells, bleats and hoofs sure-footed on stone. But I have no desire to go to the village. Instead I go to the waterfall to wash the city from my body and remember the sweet caress of the sun.
It’s 3.19 am. Berlin time. I am dancing in the underground. Sweet violin plays the strings of my heart. Ride of the Valkyries. My soul in question.
Clouds, so impermanent, advise her that reality is a mere dream. The illusion of solidity in their shape and comforting forms is exactly that, illusion, disappearing as temperature changes, wind blows or night extinguishes day. Why would a cloud be other than this? I marvel at such simplicity. I will endeavour to leave clouds to their journey, not fall in love with them in any other way than to share their pleasure of being vaporous perfection.
It is Minus 11 in Berlin.
Heart rate slow.
It’s Minus 12 in Berlin.
Heart is warming.
I think of the Life, Death, Rebirth cycle.
Again and again and again.
Thank you Clarissa Pinkola Estés.
Sometimes I just miss people. I want to hold them in my arms and feel their heart beat. I want to look into their souls. Share stories. Linger in all the delicious ways. This isn’t lust. There are many ways to be in the world. Lust has its place. But the kind of desire I speak of is a love so deep that it may only last a second yet find perfection. The willingness to be absolutely present. This is not a contradiction. The longing is a sweetness, something that poetry holds hands with and prose takes a long walk through aimless streets.