twentyfifteen domain was triggered too early. This is usually an indicator for some code in the plugin or theme running too early. Translations should be loaded at the init action or later. Please see Debugging in WordPress for more information. (This message was added in version 6.7.0.) in /home/alover47/public_html/wp-includes/functions.php on line 6121I’ve made room
For all your unsent letters,
Your declarations of love,
And your declarations of war.
For your peace resolutions.
I’ve made room
For all the folded napkins
From the dinners we’ve never had.
For all the corks of champagne bottles
We’ve never opened.
I’ve made room
For all the red roses
In bouquets I’ve never hung to dry.
There is room in my heart for everything.
There is room in my heart for you.
You know?
No, you reply,
But I know you’ll tell me.
In one of the many versions of my life, we would be one day sitting in Florian Cafe in Venice, the two of us.
We would not long for one another. Our bodies would not be hungry for the other’s touch. Our mouths would not devour the other’s lips. We would be looking forward to getting to that hotel room only to rest after a long day. Each to his own.
We would be sipping our coffees quietly, like two people who have lived. And loved. Apart.
I can already see your elegant hands, your thin fingers, your carefully groomed nails shining discreetly as you’re slowly picking up your white porcelain cup. I can see you pursing your lips and blowing lightly over your hot coffee before you take a sip, I can see the sadness that’s always pulled a thin, grey veil over that sparkle in your eyes. I can see your smile. I can hear your deep voice and my womb remembers that unique vibration and smiles. There’s no fire burning, no river overflowing, there’s peace now.
Such spaciousness between us.
We would look at each other with curiosity, compassion and gratitude. We have not spent our most beautiful years together. We have been everywhere and done everything. Except grow old with each other. We gave that privilege to other people.
But we found each other again. Spending a few quiet hours in patience and contentment. In the absence of fear. And of desire.
Now we know.
No one ever has anyone. So no one ever loses anyone.
When we were hungry for each other, we were most hungry for ourselves.
All we ever have is now.
An eternity.
Vineri am stat foarte aproape de un grup de spanioloaice pe dig, în locul pe care noi l-am numit portul pescarilor, în Tajao, satul unde am locuit timp de o lună în Tenerife.
Femeile acestea și interacțiunile dintre ele mi-au adus aminte de copilărie și de apropierea pe care o percepeam atunci între femei. La noi în bloc femeile se vizitau, se ajutau, beau cafea împreună, povesteau, coseau, tricotau, o doamnă era coafeză și le făcea părul tuturor celorlalte, nu departe locuia o cosmeticiană, la două blocuri distanță era doamna care ne făcea injecții, în blocul alăturat doamna care lucra la fabrica de lapte.
Toată lumea știa tot despre toată lumea. Era un soi de intimitate care în adolescență mă deranja. Este foarte ciudat acum să mă gândesc că nu mai știu cine locuiește în blocul în care am crescut până la 18 ani.
Spanioloaicele de pe dig erau, din ce am înțeles din ciripitul lor vesel și neîntrerupt, o mamă, o bunică, niște surori și niște prietene, toate în costume de baie. La un moment dat, una dintre ele le-a pensat pe toate, pe rând. Fiecare femeie venea lângă ea, își așeza capul pe coapsele ei și se lăsa pensată în timp ce ciripitul continua. Aproape că mi-au dat lacrimile de atâta firesc.
Înafară de relațiile dintre femei, am admirat la spanioli și spanioloaice încă două lucruri pe care deja intenționam să le cultiv mai mult și în viața mea:
1. Plăcerea de a trăi, bucuria, joaca – pe plajă, cam toți spaniolii se joacă – volei, fotbal, aleargă, râd, se bălăcesc, glumesc, se bat cu nisip, se stropesc etc. Această copilăreală indiferent de vârstă este atât de sănătoasă și de adorabilă!
2. Modul dezinhibat, relaxat și lejer în care se poartă în corpurile lor. Nimeni nu-și suge burta sau ascunde celulita. Slipul tanga sau brazilian e la mare modă, inclusiv la joacă pe plajă, indiferent de forme. Iar bărbații sunt cât se poate de relaxați și ei și mi-a plăcut să observ cum joaca este generală. Iar această relaxare este, după părerea mea, superbă. Nu m-am putut abține să mă gândesc că probabil în general au și o viață intimă fericită.
Mă întreb dacă la spanioloaice există cercuri de femei sau dacă pur și simplu nu înțeleg conceptul, având în vedere că ele oricum trăiesc zi de zi, constant și firesc, alături de alte femei. Mi-a făcut tare bine să le văd și să le ascult.
La un moment dat a venit o doamnă îngrijorată și le-a întrebat dacă e pe aici vreun pescar cu plasă, căci ea își scăpase telefonul undeva între bolovani, dincolo de dig, și se tot chinuia să-l recupereze și nu reaușea.
Femeile i-au sărit imediat în ajutor și au îndrumat-o spre mine.
Băieții mei și tatăl lor erau la vânătoare de crabi și pești colorați cu plasele. Doamna m-a întrebat dacă vorbesc spaniolă.
– Buenos dias. Comprendo, pero no parlo, lo siento, i-am răspuns și toate celelalte doamne au izbucnit în râs.
Mi-am dat seama că sunasem ca în reclama aia în care o turistă rătăcită întreabă un trecător dacă vorbește engleza, iar el răspunde cu un accent britanic perfect:
“Oh, no, terribly sorry, dear, not a word, unfortunately. It’s just one of those things I should’ve paid more attention to in school, I’m afraid… Sorry I can’t help you, but I’ve seen someone over there, maybe they speak English.”
Am înțeles ce se întâmplase și că avea nevoie să împrumute o plasă de la noi. I-am întins-o imediat, adăugând:
– Claro, por supuesto que sí!
Apoi două dintre femeile din grup au mers să o ajute. S-au întors victorioase după vreo jumătate de oră și le-au povestit celoralte toată pățania. Apoi a venit și doamna cu pricina și nu știa cum să-mi mulțumească, spunea că nu-i venea să creadă că are din nou telefonul în mână.
– De nada, estoy feliz, i-am răspuns cu mare bucurie.
Le-am adorat, pur și simplu, pe aceste femei. Mulțumesc pentru întâlnire.
PS Dacă sunteți ca mine și n-ați mai fost în Spania, dar ați prins în pre-adolescență câteva episoade din ceva telenovele și mai aveți și un simț al limbilor, vă veți descurca de minune în Spania. Nu încercați să vorbiți engleză, mai degrabă româna va funcționa acolo unde spaniola vă părăsește.
Și e super simpatic să asculți cum spaniolii și italienii se înțeleg perfect în timp ce fiecare vorbește, natural și fără stres, propria limbă. Pe de altă parte, francezii își imaginează că vor fi înțeleși de oricine dacă vorbesc franceză, doar că mai tare și mai rar. Și dacă nu se descurcă așa, vor încerca să vorbească în engleză, doar că în șoaptă. Însă nici asta n-o să-i ajute. Sunt foarte simpatici.
It was the summer of 2016 and I was house, cat and fish sitting for my cousins’ friend in Sollentuna, on the outskirts of Stockholm, in her yellow house. I’d got a divorce the year before, after a 9 year marriage (but the relationship was actually longer – 16 years).
I was working as a teacher in a Steiner Waldorf school in Bucharest and I was on holiday. I had three weeks on my own in the yellow house, close to a nature reserve on one side and to a vik (long and narrow bay) on the other side, half an hour from Stockholm central.
I loved meeting deer and rabbits on my walks. The highway was close by and I was imagining the traffic noise was coming from a waterfall as I was doing my evening workout on the wooden deck or coming back from an incursion in Gamla Stan (the old town) or just my daily run in the neighboring streets.
I was happy. Alone. Beautiful. Free.
On the way to the train station there was a shopping area. And one day I discovered this small family-run shop, doing tailoring work and also selling clothes. I went in for the conversation. Because they were not Swedish and so I was sure they would appreciate the conversation at least as much as I was going to.
They were both in their late forties, a bit pale. The man had dark circles around his eyes, a stiff jaw and deep wrinkles between his eyebrows.
The woman was hiding behind a sewing machine, her head covered in a light blue hijab, working on a black sparkling dress.
“Where are you from?” I asked after hearing them speak Arabic.
She quietly lifted her head, gave me a quick glance and then she briefly looked at the man. He turned to me, took a deep breath and pointed his chin up replying:
“Syria.”
I’d never witnessed so much dignity in such a short reply.
“Oh, really, how beautiful. I have a very good Syrian friend, I met him in Istanbul.”
And we continue our small talk as I decide to buy a powdered pink dress.
“Shukran” I tell them after I pay and their eyes light up.
Five years later, I close down my business, pack everything, say goodbye to my friends and, together with my two young kids, my husband and our two cats, we move to the yellow house. From La Hulpe, Belgium. We arrive on April 1.
That morning we left our most beautiful house and lovely garden with vegetables, flowers and singing birds. The garden where I buried my 16 year old cat and Nathaniel’s placenta. Just 800 meters from a more than 220 hectares domain with a castle, half an hour from Brussels central. I would be hiding in bed, crying into a pillow, but I have the kids to think of.
The highway noise is bruising my ears and bringing my eyebrows closer together. The wind is mercilessly whipping my cheeks. The posh neighborhood we live in turns out to be in between these two ghettos, with gangs shooting and setting cars on fire, so the police helicopter often flies over our house at night. The neighbors are always playing loud music outside on every God-given sunny day.
I gather my strength and go visit the Syrian shop. I imagine them opening the door for me, I imagine reminding them I was there five years before, I imagine we are all smiling and I buy some clothes for the kids.
I have my whole family with me, I am wearing the pink powdered dress, hopping with joy in anticipation of a pleasant conversation as I approach the place.
The first thing that strikes me is the dirt – thick dust and pieces of packaging. Fragments of colorful Arabic words still stuck on the upper part of the windows, locked door. It’s dark inside. And a cold, heavy lump finds home in my throat.
Tonight I had a little conversation with my youngest, as he was running his palms against my face, my chest and my arms.
“Mommy, I love you very much.”
“I love you, too.” I said. And then, just like that, I stopped time.
And I just breathed the same air as he was breathing.
This is it, I said to myself, feeling the moment dilate like air in a hot air balloon, all my senses flooded by happiness.
Why don’t I just lie here right now, with no plan of helping him fall asleep sooner, no plan of getting up earlier and sitting in front of my laptop.
What’s the point? What’s the point of this marathon? Did I sign up for this? Who’s to say my life is worth the hours I spend working? Who’s to say my life is worth the amount in my bank account or the value of my properties or how sustainable I’ve learnt to live? Who’s to say anything about MY life but ME? And who am I lending my voice to?
“Nathaniel, I love you. Thank you for choosing me as your mother. You are such a special child, so strong and so brave and so loving and kind. I learn so much from you every day. I love you very much, thank you for our time together, I love sleeping next to you and waking up together and playing with you every day. I am so happy we are together. Thank you.”
He listened quietly while running his small, warm palms up and down my cheeks. Then, without another word, he put his arms around me and fell asleep.
And I continued my train of thought.
Sometimes having everything can feel like having nothing.
There is a level of freedom where it feels like you are on top of the world and the height can feel overwhelming. And you can feel a bit nauseous. And lonely.
Take another look around you. Not many people around, right?
Because most of them have their little boxes to mind. Their titles, their routines, their shoulds, musts and oughts, their little lives where they feel safe. Everybody seems to have it all figured out.
Not you.
You’ve stepped out of your boxes a long while ago. And several times. You’ve left comfort behind so many times. Because you’ve made an important promise to yourself: you will never give up freedom for comfort.
Yes, you may be feeling nostalgic.
It’s all right.
It’s all right to even go back to one of your little boxes in one of your past lives. You know you won’t last in there.
What will you do when you can do anything?
And Bucharest is terrible on hot summer days. It looks as if a dragon’s breath has run over it at light speed, several times.
And I’ve just got off the tram on this long boulevard lined with tall, grey communist apartment buildings and I’m looking for a newly opened bookshop. It is part of a very elegant bookshop chain and it’s supposed to be here somewhere.
I finally find a passageway between these two dusty buildings and there it is. Behind the busy boulevard, a dirty plot, with holes in the dry mud and plastic bags flying around like in that famous scene in that American movie I forget the name of. You know, almost, just almost art. Garbage everywhere. I make my way to the door of the bookshop.
Inside there is a bourgeois atmosphere. Elegance, the scent of connoisseur’s tea, of freshly printed books, the polished squeaky wooden floor, the carefully chosen, well placed warm lights. The place feels like a lonely member of an aristocratic family that’s lost his way in a blue collar neighborhood.
And nothing happens. I don’t meet anyone special. In fact, I don’t meet anyone at all. Apart from the shop keeper, I am the only one there. I don’t remember buying anything remarkable, though I probably did buy something just to make the shopkeeper feel better (yes, I often did that and still do it sometimes).
How in the world have they opened this bookshop in this horrible place?
And why the heck does this memory keep popping up in my mind, more than ten years later, while I’m out playing with the kids, doing house chores or whatever? Nothing happened! Why do I keep seeing this? When I was there, I never imagined I would remember anything about that experience. Because it was totally unimpressive. And, again, NOTHING happened.
And as I’m talking to a friend about it the other day and as she’s really listening, I hear myself asking THE question: what did I feel then?
The answer was already there and it struck me like a bolt of lightning:
A deep lack of belonging. A sense of the outcast, the margin, the uninvited guest, the rebel.
Story of my life.
It feels as if I’ve been running a marathon since the beginning of 2020. Lived in three countries, moved house five times. I’m not sure I know how to stop or even slow down. Only lately do I surprise myself taking deep breaths again, looking into my children’s eyes – I mean really looking, stopping all else. It’s fascinating to watch them descend on earth one day at a time. Only to find their way back up again, as we all do, when the time comes.
I’ve managed to stick to the habit of writing letters to them, through all the changes and challenges. I already miss their early days and months. I miss myself in those times. I miss their father in those earlier times. I miss feeling so carefree (yes, that’s the way I felt in those times). We didn’t have our families close for help, but I felt so cared for, so loved, so protected, so safe. Having very young kids is definitely one of the most tiring and difficult times in one’s life, but it is also probably the most beautiful time. Or so it has been for me. I wonder if I can ever be that happy again in this lifetime. Is it allowed?
I’m definitely in my mid-life crisis. Reevaluating my life. I’ve lived so many different lives in this lifetime. I’d got used to having no regrets. If I learnt anything valuable from my first lover, a rough lieutenant ten years older than me, is that it’s better to regret something you’ve done than something you haven’t had the courage to try. So I’ve tried e v e r y t h i n g I’ve ever been curious about.
And I have never been curious about conforming or fitting in or about living the same day over and over. So now I’ve discovered regret. Having left the most beautiful house and the most beautiful village I’ve ever lived in, in the most beautiful neighborhood. Regret has such sharp teeth. It deepens wrinkles and dries up skin. I often find myself lately wishing I’d been curious about living a comfortable life for a longer time.
2020 threw us out of the life we knew. Not just us as a family, but us as humanity. To me it felt like I lost a whole world. It set me out there, looking so desperately for that place. Home. Looking for it out there as if it ever were to be found out there. Looking for that place where freedom can never be taken away. As if freedom were ever given to us by an outside authority to be taken away as they please. Looking for home as if home were not the whole earth for as long as I’ll be around.
Reminder to myself: stop moving, start traveling. And travel light. You are everything you need and everything you will ever truly have.
What now?
To be continued. Soon.
Like a cold pair of scissors suddenly severing the stalk of a freshly bloomed peony.
Then the helpless muscles in the arms hopelessly tensing never to reach again.
Never
Never that flesh, never that smell, never that look in the never that color of the never those eyes.
Again
Life is never like that ridiculously oversized ice-cream that they sell in that utterly uninteresting Swedish town –
You never get enough of it.
Death always comes like a summertime storm. You never expect it. And even as the thunders are rolling, you still can’t believe it’ll get you all wet to the bone and cold as ice. It’s summer.
Nevertheless…
We who are temporarily left
behind –
flooded by waves and waves of neversaid words, nevercast glances, nevergiven hugs, neverforgiven mistakes, nevergiven chances, neverlived dreams, neverdone work –
weep
not for those who have crossed,
but for our own murdered innocence.
We weep
for our own betrayals.
Where did kindness drown?
Stark naked in front of this cold mirror –
The shame.
Is this who i am?
I am
I
I want to go back!
Just one more second of kindness.
Just one more second.
One
Please let me go back.
A beggar kneeling by locked gates.
Time can be so…
What’s the word?
Cruel?
Oh, no, that’s actually me.
Time is just
A circle
PS I want to remember you as you were when our eyes first met. Do you remember? That surprise. That oh-my-god-I-know-you look? I want to remember you like that. So that I will recognize you again next time we meet. All of you.
Unele încă mai mișcau când mi le-am băgat în tricou, lipite de sâni și de burtă. Le voi împărți cu el, m-am gândit în drum spre casă. Când am ajuns, el nu era acolo. M-am bucurat, cred că m-aș fi jenat să mi le dezlipesc de piele-n fața lui. Mi-am ridicat tricoul. N-aveam nimic pe dedesubt. Nimic înafară de creveți, scoici și pui de calamar lipiți de sâni și de burtă.
Un copil doarme încovrigat ca un motan. Celălalt îmi molfăie un sân. El intră. Zâmbește. Are fâșii lungi de dantelă roșie prinse-n păr.
-Ne vedem mai târziu, mă duc să cânt, îmi spune zâmbind și se apleacă să mă sărute. Se oprește o fracțiune de secundă la câțiva milimetri. Zâmbește.
Îi cuprind gâtul cu palma și-i apăs buzele pe ale mele. Mi-e dor de el.
-Ce mult ai de oferit și ce mare nevoie ai să primești, îmi spune lăsând o gură de aer să se strecoare-ntre gurile noastre.
-Mulțumesc, îi răspund. Nu că ar fi vreun compliment, mulțumesc că ai remarcat, îi răspund afundându-mă-n golul dintre buzele noastre.
M-a sărutat apoi în ritmuri inventate, cântând la buzele mele ca la pian. Și-am râs.
-Ne vedem mai târziu, a repetat înainte să iasă.
Plouă mărunt deja de mai bine de o săptămână și stropii mici răpăie cuminți pe acoperiș. Ploaia se aude ca o pisică imensă torcând molcom. Copilul mic se strânge în cuibul pe care corpul meu încovoiat i-l așterne. Copilul mare mă caută cu palma și căldura degetelor lui zăbovește pe brațul meu. Ușor-ușor, palma i se-nmoaie și alunecă, prăbușindu-se lângă spatele meu. Aud respirația caldă a tatălui lor îmbrățișându-ne pe toți trei.
Închid ochii. Copilul mic îmi frământă ușor sânul în somn. Buzele i se desprind și-apoi mă caută din nou. Îi sărut fruntea și mă odihnesc o vreme acolo, în sărutul acela, în momentul acela, în mirosul lui de bomboane de lapte cu sare. Mă afund în această clipă care se dilată și mă cuprinde ca o burtă în care mă odihnesc.
Văd dealurile verzi ale copilăriei mele, copacii înalți legănându-se, vârfurile albe ale munților. Moliciunea ierbii îmi primește talpa și glezna, iar vârfurile firelor îmi gâdilă pielea gambelor, desenând drumuri peste drumuri peste drumuri. Cântecul neîncetat al greierilor și zumzetul albinelor umplu tot spațiul minții. Și mă afund în iarba parfumată și alerg și simt aerul acela infinit umplându-mi plămânii. Peste zumzetul gâzelor din iarba dansând se iscă vântul în crengile copacilor, aud scârțâitul unui trunchi înalt și un cal nechezând. Mă las pe spate, cu brațele deschise și privesc cerul, în libertatea lui măiestuoasă.
Mi-e dor de mama și de mirosul ei discret, pudrat, fragil. Mi-e dor de mâinile bătătorite ale bunicii. Mi-e dor de tata și de-mbrățișarea lui strânsă, mereu grăbită. Mi-e dor s-ajung acasă. Mi-e dor să mă primească.
