In time, between 29 and 31, I felt the need to express love in a physical form. Having spent a good portion—months often connected—of 31, 32, and in between 32 and 33 away from the people I knew I loved, I discovered and practiced love that could be felt beyond physical form. Spending a few moments in quiet connection was all it took for the focusee of my thoughts to feel the space around them shift towards them. On occasion, I used technology to amplify my intent. The letters that formed words and the words that formed phrases, attempting to describe my current state, reflect back.
The critique on the form of desired affection wasn’t that I lacked love or that we lacked —it was that we each hadn’t been still long enough.
I am feeling,
I love, all of the two of us’.
I twirled the skinny rings we purchased together; they remind me of you. I purchased a loaf of bread that had grains from near where you live; it reminds me of you. I couldn’t resist buying Marmite; it reminds me of you. I made ghee; it reminds me of many of you. At yoga, I practiced the first things I ever learned from you; I am forever grateful to you. Our brief was theater related; I spent hours reminded of you. A friend had my scone in an airport lounge; it reminds me of you. I bought cilantro–you hate cilantro–it reminds me of you. I saved my avocado seed; it reminds me of you. I ate the last piece of cake and drank cold tea; they remind me of you.
Today, everything reminds me of many of you.
They cannot express how I felt
I will keep feeling.
Each and every one of you,
the collective breath
blows me away.
Your energy resonates
through every space I know.
This feeling, new to me
new to you
new to us.
Words, I have not many.
Oxheart celebrates community. Sunday was about us, what we did together, along with a group of humans that put it on paper, sharing their style. Without you, there is no me. You make me feel comfortable in my own skin, to allow me to tell my story, to share my life with you, to love in the way that I know how to love. The energy from Oxheart never leaves this world. It will be what you let it be. It is as much a part of me as it is of you. This book is for all of us.
The room filled with my love, your love, our love. We took a space, transformed it into a place that vibrates with love for those who come in next. What we did was magical—like funfetti—the ability to take something ordinary (cake) and make it something extraordinary. You walked away with a bit of me and him and her.
You didn’t judge me for my 1.5 painted nails because you didn’t notice. I’m usually purposefully on the bias, but today I came with honesty. You listened deeply to the blabber coming from my heart. The words made sense to me. It seems like they made sense to you. My soul overflows with fullness. I am beyond grateful for you, for us. Thank you for loving me and for letting me love you. I am honored to have each and every one of you in my life. I would not wish for it to be any other way. I cannot wait to do this again.
My soul overflows with fullness. I am beyond grateful for you, for us. Thank you for loving me and for letting me love you. I am honored to have each and every one of you in my life. I would not wish for it to be any other way. I cannot wait to do this again. I’ve been told I throw good parties. My hidden talent: finding excuses to celebrate life.
I am still vibrating.
Welcome to PSA
Me and the books!
Betsy and I
Sierra and Ellen’s amazingness
My first dessert at Oxheat
Mixing Bowls with decals and flour ash
How do we want to be seen?
I challenged myself to look at myself in the mirror. It wasn’t about what I was wearing, or how I looked from the side, or if the black made me look thinner. I looked directly at her, into the eyes that see the world through their lens. The mirror—dusty—when was the last time it got cleaned? I cleaned it with a cloth. Still dusty. Is that me looking back at me? The dust distorts her vision. I cleaned it with an all-natural glass cleaner. The image sharpened, but I’m not sure if I saw myself clearer. She tries taking off her glasses. Perhaps it’s the glare from the extra set of eyes.
Could she soften the muscles between the eyes? Why were they engaged? There is nothing to hid. Were her eyes really that shade of amber? I’m not sure they have ever been amber. They used to be hazel (in her younger years), then a dark brown, but amber? I miss those hazel eyes. Despite her weariness, her eyes are wide. Observing the world with intrigue? She can’t find stillness. Her gaze moves down to her freckles. Are they freckles or sun spots? The hair on her face, removed this afternoon—at least there is nothing to look at there. A recent photo of her, published in the Chronicle on Sunday, pictured her four years younger. I wasn’t sure she looked like that, but photos don’t lie. The fat around her cheeks don’t exist today. She has lost the protection of youth. She tests if her forehead moves—it does. When did that happen? It was after she turned thirty. I remember that day. I was oddly excited. Her skin, gradually losing its elasticity. Aging, it’s real. Perhaps I’m the only person excited to age. Maybe her acquaintances will stop calling her ‘little one’ or ‘munchkin.’ (Her height matches the average height of the average adult American female. Shocking. Aren’t Asian people shorter in general?) Neither words are adequate descriptions of her. I digress. When will my eyes get crow’s feet, she wonders. She laughs a lot now, surely the feet will ground themselves into her skin.
The mirror, clean for tomorrow’s study. I shouldn’t wait that long between cleaning.
See you Sunday.
I feel as if no matter how far in distance I am from you that the space is actually measurable. I’ve gotten random messages: of love, of missing you, of I’m always here for you, of it’s not okay I haven’t heard from you in a while.
My heart heavily holds. It contemplates what to place as purpose on Mother Earth. It contemplates how it should extend love to others and self. It contemplates if was can also be future notions.
I am full of promises to myself. It’s the only way I know.
Lately, I have been described as eccentric, amongst other things. While I fully lean into it, in an attempt to get to know myself a little better:
eccentric means that I have behavior that is unconventional and slightly strange;
strange means unusual or surprising in a way that is unsettling or hard to understand;
unsettling means causing anxiousness or uneasiness;
anxious means experiencing worry, unease, or nervousness, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome—defining uneasiness would just create a circular reference at this point….
I challenge you with eccentricity. I hope that my unconventional and slightly strange nature does cause you to pause and look at life in a different angle, which doesn’t have to align with mine because I mostly don’t know what angle I’m at. (Angie can totally attest to this one.) But, worry for only a moment, because after that moment, you’re living in the past, while I’m here in the present, waiting for you to love with me.
This world deviates from circularity and so do I.
It’s been four months since I threw out my razor. I hate how my legs feel when they are unshaven. I very much dislike how they look when the sun hits them while riding my Vespa. Still, I commit to not shaving them until the end of the year.
In challenging myself on how I view beauty, I have balanced my unshaven legs with this:
My hands look way older than the 31 years they are; but, they are mine and the nail polish is dope.