I’m in the shower, singing.
I don’t know why, but here I am singing.
I wanted to hear myself.
And my voice came out.
As if I was hearing it for the first time.
And the voice that came out was beautiful.
It was full.
I was surprised by the vocal expression that manifested from my heart, arose through my throat, and slipped into the air waves.
This is me?
This is my soul experiencing itself.
I sang the song we sung together.
I’d been afraid to hear it.
Afraid it would break my heart…
“You’ve never yelled before?” he asked me with disbelief.
I was visiting a friend and her boyfriend in Santa Monica the summer before I moved when half my throat closed up on the airplane. And then again as we sat down for lunch and I struggled to eat or speak.
“Haven’t, like, just let it all out?” he pressed.
Before I could answer, my friend’s boyfriend pushed himself from the table, tilted his head back, and filled the tiny apartment with a bellow that reverberated throughout the echos of my heart chamber.
I laughed uncomfortably and pushed my fingers into…
“Cold hands, warm heart,” my grandmother chuckled. I remember her squeezing my adolescent hand so tightly that my bones gnashed together. I smiled through the discomfort, silently praying for the release of my fingers from her grip while sitting still next to her. I felt sorry. I was sorry we were not close like my mother’s mother.
My hands were made by my father’s mother. Long and dexterous. A temperature comparable to ice. …
My perception of her shifts as I near the age of my mother when I first remembered her. When I understood her as an object of permanence, encoded her face as mother, and, from that point on, would begin the witnessing of an entire being’s journey to one of her last breaths.
I hadn’t thought of what day it was until I felt it. By that time, I was picking a fight with my partner for letting the gas tank hit E on our way to catch the remnant of a sunset.
“5 minutes isn’t going to make a difference,”…
“That’s what you do,” he says. “Leave people and places.”
He tells me it’s fucking exhausting.
“Go. I don’t want to talk to you again.”
He forgets that I once told him I don’t leave.
I know when it’s time to go.
People leave me.
Places show me the door when I’ve overstayed my welcome.
I think back to days ago when we were snowed in.
The white powder mounting against the window panes of the cabin.
The moon casting a spotlight between where we lay on opposite sofas.
It would be picturesque.
It would be cinematic. …
The year 2019 was bookended by ten words.
Ten words that echoed between leaving a place that was suppose to be my home and arriving in a new city I wasn’t sure could ever be a home.
I first heard these words spoken in the middle of the Maasai Mara three years earlier when our guide taught us the Ho’oponopono, as learned in her native home of Hawaii, before a sunrise yoga practice:
Please forgive me.
I love you.
I needed to feel the rush of driving over the bridge one last time. I called it fate when the GPS took me across the Bay Bridge on my way out of California. Moving again. This time toward the upper Pacific Northwest. The car was packed with everything that could fit, including my beloved plant I inherited from the previous tenant. You called it the third wheel. I refused to part with it after my dad told me plants have feelings.
This would be our last road trip and I missed it already. I thought about how you looked at…
I received the biggest compliment I could have imagined when a friend recently commented that something is different about me. That I am grounded.
A contrast to this exact time last year where I have written in my digital notepad: “I am spiraling. Coming undone. So be it.” And stepped into the chaos.
“What changed?” she asked.
Honestly, I didn’t have an exact answer other than I’ve finally been given respite and rested.
I rested to heal and to recover. A year ago, I broke my brain trying to be in two countries at the same time while the…
I had a dream I flew to the moon. Literally (arguably) flew. To the moon. Takes about forty seconds to get there on a clear night. My best friend, aunt, and sister came along for the ride. Upon landing, I got to see my mom again.
The last time I saw my mom in a dream, I was being arranged into marriage by my employer and she was planning the wedding ceremony on the Golden Gate Bridge. In a post-dream analysis, the elements of this subconscious production were satisfying to piece together: recent nostalgia set the landmark stage in San…
🌊🐋 Sleep, Dreams, & the Human Condition