Scarcely anything happens. I was in the car and at the same time in a dream space I usually drift to in the backseat when the song in my ears competes with the one being played on the radio. My desire to be alone was satisfied by the fact that at least no one could reach me where my mind was. The window showed dashing grays to greens outside, imparting an impression of me moving onward—past a grandma and a grandpa locking the gate of their house, and everything else—while I sat turning into a still spectator again. On a different day, I would have jumped out of myself and pictured knowing these people. I’d ask at what crossroads they met the way I never got to ask my grandparents and convince myself their house is a home as much as they are to each other. I’d marvel at the seams where the road they have been to is familiar and oversimplify that all lives are the same. At the breaches where their life took a turn different from where I steered to I’d conclude our intentions are the better navigators. That we may not wind up where we intend to but only because the real purpose of the choices we make was never for ticking off milestones in our plans but to lead us where we should rightfully be. But on that April day seeing the vibrance of the afternoon and feeling the immensity of my estrangement made the whole ride almost insufferable. All I could truly think of was how, when I’m moving 40 kilometers per hour, I felt like I wasn’t going anywhere at all.
Something was pushing out, and I could cry, I wanted to, but I couldn’t yet.
Arriving home I decided to go for a walk. The air was palpably different. When walking with my mother one fine February the breeze so clearly wanted to carry us back home. This time it pierced my pores. I tied the curtains that morning and noticed the humid atmosphere smothered what was left of the cold. It brushed unashamedly into my hands, the kind of warmth I instinctively withdrew from before it even reached the skin of my heart. I knew the season has changed. April means spring elsewhere and I wanted desperately to know what they talk about when they talk about the season holding a promise, holding out hope for a heart that endures. If I talk about what mine endures you’d hear about a hope that never settled. We’re all going to make it, yes, we’ll be alright, but do I know for sure? I loathe the fact I would sometimes want to demand some kind of certainty when I was always one for asking what is life without taking risks. It is hope that does the affirmation and it’s fickle but I’m keeping it. I tell myself nothing stays for far too long though it barely consoles. April here means summer, sometimes too cruel for Earth but lately I don’t know much about seasons anymore when in summer it storms. They say there are seasons within us too but even that is a haze upending my call for clarity.
My solitary walks are normally a rendezvous with nature. People are out for drills and sweat, geared with black and neon sportswear, but I was after the sweetness of chasing the sun although I ended up missing it for the multiple pauses I took to hear the last note of the two birds’ bickering. They did so like they were in a conversation. One near the crossroad where I stopped to listen and the other one farther down the street I could almost only hear a singing echo. I looked around in an attempt to find them in the tall grasses but really I only found myself searching for myself as if the answers to the questions I didn’t even know I had were hanging from the branches waiting for me to cut the thread. I thought it would have been reassuring that way. If when I go in the direction of my dream a response, even one slighter than that singing echo, would be there as a compass to keep going. But silence is mostly all that there is.
The truth is, I am not so sure anymore.
There is a reeling from which the fuel of affirmations runs out and I trip over the edge. Once upon a time, my fear was overpowered by the excitement of realizing I just made a choice I had only dreamed of having. In lifeless times this had been my hope, my kind of restoration. At times it would feel somewhat selfish, and that feeling would open the portal to the self-implicated accusations I hid carefully on the back burner. Still, I didn’t want to deny myself the grace of accepting that for once I felt like I was standing up for my aspirations, building a future I could live with that even without foreseeable success I’d die happy even for trying. The possibility of an uprising tide of rejections and feeling unwelcome for even stepping one foot beyond the gate of this dream was something I could care less about because I knew it was all part of this surreal undertaking. I could see all that I’d imagined, clearly for the first time. I was determined if I couldn’t charge my way in, I’ll do all that it takes to pull them right into my orbit. It would probably be nice if this story was cut not so far from that once upon a time that even I would wonder, with all the zeal I had, if I did make it. Once again the hope would reaffirm. Before caterpillars become butterflies they stay in their cocoons too. Surely all things end but my stay in this liminal space seemed way past check-out.
I reached the roundabout where a kid ran his kite while an accordionist sat on the central island and played a classic. For a moment the earthly scent of summer heat and people gathering there provided a short-lived serenity as I listened to the rhythm harmonize with the kid’s giddy shrills. Turning right on the road straight home the sun showed itself in its full tangerine it was almost pomegranate before its light got completely barricaded by the trees. I ran, hearing the gradual crescendo of the roundabout music as I put it behind me, and halted at the open field where the sun already hid behind a row of houses visible at the horizon’s far end. I stayed as if the sun would come back when it was clear in the way it was getting dark it was only getting farther. Tomorrow I’ll catch it. I told myself over and over but the immensity I felt for missing that minute’s glory contained a disappointment I only now begin to understand. It was as if it encompassed all my limitations keeping me from bridging the gap between this space and the transition. It was as if it foreshadowed an ending to this story.
It’s terrifying to feel stuck, to recognize that slowness is becoming more akin to stagnation. I felt alone in this pursuit. When faith starts to feel more like foolishness it’s easier to surrender in the belief that I am instead walking toward a dead end. No trajectory just an unguided propelling. I would deny but a pause would certainly ensue. The days would pass knowing I had lost my momentum. Entropy would tower over me and I’d be too fazed to move.
I thought of all the ways I could stop and all the reasons I’d be convinced it would be for the best. I could take a U-turn. Return to where I was. I had envisioned needing something to fall on before and I dreaded it but at least I’d already know my way back. Forget transitions. Forget all these dreams. Forget the salvation even the smallest hope brings. Forget about hoping.
Passing the shaded court near the entrance of our village I was overcome with guilt for having such a faint heart when not so long ago I was dauntless. I wanted to let out a cry but I still couldn’t—even my emotions were trapped inside me. The shouts, the dribbles, the shoes squeaking, and the abundance of motion that was going on were suddenly unbearable. I paced my steps and against the noise unbothered by my silence, against the fine line between hoping and forgetting, I told myself just loud enough to hear it, tomorrow will be better. I didn’t have to believe it but I needed to say it.
The dark crept and there weren’t any more brilliant colors or music, just the bougainvillea in a planter box that had always bloomed outside the house near the street curve. The streets grew quiet, and tomorrow will be better. The night will end and tomorrow will be better. I’m going home and tomorrow will be better.
Nearing home I heard someone call my name from a few blocks away. I turned around to see the kid in my neighborhood and he smiled like an answer to an affirmation. I waved and smiled back before he went back to playing with the other kids. Later at midnight I could finally cry.
I reckoned there was something else I was forgetting. How every day I still show up. How strongly involuntary was the resistance from the thought of going back. I overlooked the times I mulled over the slump I got myself into and tried to find the cracks where I can slip myself in. I had paused from reading a book for a while but I would read online essays about writers trying to get past this phase and how over and over they succeeded. I forgot about still trying. I forgot despite everything I kept believing. I want to recognize the better things to remember and anchor them to something durable, like my heart, though even that I had forgotten. To remember the kid who called me away from my misery. To remember the relief from crying that midnight and how I failed to recognize that I was only a few hours away from the better tomorrow I was hoping for because I was too consumed by sadness. This is not an ending I am trying to patch up so it would turn out as if I did make it; I’m still in the dog days and it’s far from over and I could presage them reoccurring.
Time works in odd ways here in this liminal space and it never promised security or comfort, just an unfolding in which I am tossed and warped and I could only believe it would turn me into something new and better. Believe it’s in the dark that one sees an afterglow, and my eyes will eventually see the light that precedes it. Believe it’s the singing echo. Believe that by that time, I’d be ready.
I made a playlist for this letter, which was inspired after hearing Fine Line for the first time. The first two lines really forced their way in, and I felt the entire song grow on me as I listened to it on repeat. I understood why we’ll be alright had to be sung over and over. That and the drumming at the end and the cymbals crashing in one full ensemble had to convince. How it sounded like we’ll be alive to me means something. evermore is a song I’m already familiar with but only truly heard now as it made me feel seen in return. Lighthouse, a prayer. Nothing New, the mess. I Wanna Get Better is something I dream of hearing live just to be a part of the crowd that sings “Better!” three times aloud. Ready is what makes hope settle. All Things End is the despite, despite, despite. Each time I’d focus on the bass and there I find the real depth of this song. this is me trying is my consolation. In the Sky and on the Ground, the crawling towards all things ending.
The idea for this newsletter came to me at a bad time and there was a point when I wished it had come sooner or later just not now. I wanted to give it my best but I wasn’t at my best. I haven’t been clear-headed and for that I was afraid to face the page. But every day I would come back for it and these songs helped me find my way in. The entire playlist described the changing tides in this liminal space in a way I could only hope this newsletter achieved, how it could be violent one moment, a steady stream the next, only to be caught in a riptide once again. Someday I’ll hear these songs again and I’ll remember what they gave me, but I’ll probably never hear them the same way I hear them now.
Some extra: words that found me that mentally brought me to my knees and grateful for the synchronicity of them meeting me where I was.
You can put your strength down. I’m sitting here with you at your kitchen table. You don’t need to say anything.
Eden Robinson, Writing Prompts for the Broken-hearted
there is so much strength in what we may term as “simply” showing up, the choice to be in the present - no matter how difficult it may be - instead of slipping through the cracks. more strength to you for continuing to make that choice 🤍