Last NaBloPoMo Day

When the last day feels like an accomplishment, when the last day is a happy day, everything turns to cheerfulness for it being over. It is a happiness lacking guilt, a type of happiness which rarely comes my way. Relief. Enthusiasm for what is to come. The unexpected lurking in the letters of t-o-m-o-r-r-o-w.

When an accomplishment comes with pride it means you’ve credited yourself for the success. And when I feel proud of myself, I feel at peace with my inner shadows.

A toast to being able to live with ourselves ! (all of our selves)

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Image source : http://goo.gl/5FGPOL

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failed attempt

How do you prove a friend that he is not alone? How do you show him that he is not alone? You are not there to hold his hand. You are here, writing a letter and saying (weeks after the tragedy has happened) that he should imagine your hand on his shoulder, his head resting in your lap. How do you persuade him that he is not alone when you yourself feel lonelier than ever? When you are wrapped in your own lonesomeness so tight that you can hardly move or breathe? How do you prove that there is a heart-to-heart closeness when you are countries and years away? Your news reach the friend too late, his happy moments have long gone when your congratulations reach him.

You go for the extreme. You try telepathy. You burn candles, impose rhythms and tempos to your breathing, you focus, chant, meditate, curl up in aching positions and lose sleep – hoping it is not in vain.

The result reaches you when you’ve almost forgotten everything you did that strange night: your friend dreamt that you fell in a dark pit, bumped your head, broke a leg, but a pack of wolves brought you bleeding and trembling to his house. You were washed and tended to and when you recovered from your convalescence, you gave a smile and produced a perfectly white lion’s foot from your dirty, smelly backpack. The friend woke up worried that you might be sick and in need of help, but then calmed down remembering the wolves. Salvation is near. He never once imagined all the fuss was meant to make him feel better. Your friend never got the proper message. At least, he didn’t fret needlessly, you think, folding the late-arrived letter and going to bed without a thought, without a second thought.

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Dream adaptations

I’ve dreamt about getting ready for a party and putting on my white leather watch. I woke up wondering whether I should look for my watch and wear it today. Not because I’m going to a party, not out of superstition but for the fun of it.

I looked for my watch while my husband was making an omelette and my son was going into and coming out of his brand-new Cozy Coupe. I smiled looking at it in astonishment. Whatever it was that came over me to make this silly choice, is beyond my power of comprehension. It seemed funny and not out of place, in a strange way. Pajamas and an elegant watch. They go together perfectly, right?

It was maybe a magic trick though. After having breakfast – which I almost never have – and chatting about some friends, some new changes we want to make around the house before the holidays… My husband turned on the radio, selected a station and asked me to dance. We danced and the child came to hug us, we laughed and jumped and danced some more, even though it was not our kind of music. We smiled and felt that it was a great Sunday morning, dancing in the room, around the car, in between toys and silent mobile phones.

Maybe all it takes to make things spring out of the ordinary is to wake up in a mood for anything, for everything.

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Immaturity

It’s not when he needs to hold my hand –

It’s not when he must hold my hand –

It’s when he wants to hold my hand

that I feel blessed.

Perfect touch of will and skin,

an embrace out of desire and affection.

When he is urged towards me by some instinct,

by some unfathomable drive –

my son holds my entire soul in his tiny fist,

throbbing with joy, feeling safe, sheltered and well placed.

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Stop and check

I consider myself a good listener. I believe that people can find it easy to talk to me and that I have the patience to listen to their troubles, stories or life experiences. It is not only my family members and friends who have shared secrets and personal history with me. There have been cashiers in train stations and ticket clerks, people I’ve met on trips or sat next to at wedding tables and they all managed to squeeze in some details about their life and spirit that made me feel as if I was allowed to hear the whispers one dares tell only the wind gods. I have also felt responsible for always giving a reply according to the story received. People usually need to be comforted or approved or simply held by the hand when they sob over their own past. However, I have always felt compelled to say somethig in return. I always found myself proposing solutions, advising or making a comment made to soothe. I wrote letters in answer to complaints or experiences heard over the phone. I said congratulations when I believed that is what people deserved and I joined them in cursing and swearing when that was required to release tension and clear the air.

I have always felt proud that people showed confidence in me, that I was trusted with dark, dangerous, silly or sad secrets. i felt as if I was an angel-chosen guardian of secret lives.

Until today I thought this was part of an unmentionable selfishness that allowed me to feel important and special. I thought I was doing myself a fevour by accepting and encouraging people to keep telling their stories. I was afraid that sometimes I was just absorbing perspectives and potential personas. I had begun to feel hammered down by beliefs that I was adding alternate lives to my own, trying to enrich the one-life option given by divinity.

Today, however, I sensed that it is all due to a pleasure of feeling useful, necessary, of enjoying a special status. I realised that seeing a smile after a sad story is what makes my day. I simply like helping others, I only like the fact that by offering time from my own life I can improve and brighten the life of another. It’s wonderful satisfaction the one I find when I am thanked and told that I matter.

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non-awkward silence

Some people say I keep too much to myself. Some people say I am too bold. Some say I am talkative and flirty. Some people say I don’t like people-company.

I have studied myself long enough to know that I can be all of those and much more. 

I have recently asked myself when it is that I stay calmly silent, without feeling the need to chat, to smile or to produce language for the ones around. I have asked myself what it is that allows me to feel comfortable while walking or sitting next to someone in spite of the fact that no word passes between our lips.

Lack of responsibility, lack of expectations, lack of need to perform, lack of pressure to entertain. This is the reply that I formulated to myself. When I do not feel responsible for the conversation, when I am simply away in my mind. When I don’t feel the others’ ears fretting over what I might say next, when I feel that the person next to me does not expect me to be a talking human. When I do not need to exhibit anything, when I do not feel compelled to prove, to confirm or deny whatever is being said or whatever goes on around us. When I feel at ease, when I feel comfortable with the other person and when I do not have reasons to act as the entertainer, trying to think up new jokes or bring back flashy news from the recesses of my memory, when I do not assume a role. When I just am. When I am accepted and when I sense no invisible question marks.

The reality of man

The body stiffens upon death. Hard evidence. Before our eyes. The person was truly there, real and true. And now genuinely gone. Feel free to touch the body in order to be persuaded. Life is hard evidence with a smootch touch, death is hard evidence with an uncomfortable feel. What is left to the imagination is everything in between and around. And that’s probably the best that could be given to us as humans.