Number of hairs that left the area of my scalp since I washed my hair last night with a carefully portioned amount of one year’s supply of Aēsop shampoo. The water in Lima is incredibly hard and I was determined not to let what happened to my scalp in Belgium happen here. The transition of living in another environment would be challenging enough and my scalp would not need to be part of that lesson.

Sundays have become a day of deep rest, where I set no alarm, where I can do absolutely nothing and be proud of doing nothing, where sometimes I don’t open or close any doors, where sometimes I give myself permission to spend time counting how many fibers no longer want to travel the world on me.

This Sunday I warmed up to the conscious hours with subtle movements and read love letters written to beloveds, wearing unicorn tights gifted to me from J.Jopling and her equally amazing partner and a Mingus t-shirt with the collar cut out so it hang-dries quickly enough to not mildew in humid Lima, wondering if I would play Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s Shallow on repeat, again.

FourSixtyFour also happens to be how many days since I’ve left my temperature-controlled tea kettle, Celan’s Hanging Ferns, my sister’s TT bike I trained on, 100% cotton towels, and a compost I turned for the last time. If I had known that day was going to be the unrepeated moments for an undisclosed amount of time, I would have spent more time thanking them for what they give me. When I left home for New York January of 2018, I had every intention of re-rooting in Houston—the tea kettle and water bottle on the bike still had water.

Navigating this modern world meant being caught between the cultural practices of my grandmothers and grandfathers, the constantly changing household expectations set by my immigrant parents who too still figuring it out, the input of those less and more Eastern than I, and the movement of the Heavens. Every year—and even still now—I ask when we will celebrate my father’s birthday. Growing up we celebrated both his Lunar and Gregorian calendar birthdays. Some days we lived by the calendar they taught me about in school and other days we lived by the calendar of my grandmothers.

In solitude, I look for freedom from being between.

Words cannot answer why Peru or why not Peru or even if I chose Peru. This adventure, this chapter, would be one of undoing and no expectations. The past lies in another hemisphere. Looking for the other half of the world would be like looking for the horizon on a foggy day. I practice trying to see more than I want to see.  Memories are just chosen fragments of part of the truth, selected by a lens, holding bias. Isolation teaches me to feel the voice of internal wisdom. There is always more. I learn to feel around my space of emptiness, an expansive container for light, love, and gratitude.

Inhale. Exhale.

Returning to my breath. That is my rhythm. 

The serpent that slythered within: exploring its new passageways, refining its movements inside new spaces. I taught myself how to look at my own reflection, loving the woman standing in her own presence. Self-care allows for no comparison.


side notes: Angel number 464.

The energy of the White Solar Mirror, pulsing in order to reflect, realizing order, sealing the matrix of endlessless, with the solar tone of intention, guided by the power of Timelesness.

Two days after the Full Moon in Libra, at the Waning Gibbous in Scorpio.

21 April, 2019