February 2022 // Dispatch #4
LOVE IS A PLACE, NOT A FEELING
Niagara Falls antique postcards
Hi friend.
Therapist Esther Perel once said, "Sex isn't something we do, it's a place we go." The other day I went out in the morning snowfall to pick up some veggies from the farmer's market down the road. Everything was freshly white, the black branches weighed down in snow & glistening like jewelry. I asked the fish-woman for scallops. "These aren't good enough!" she shouted at her display, dove into her cooler, spread the new batch in front of me, then slowly (S L O W L Y) selected the winning twelve. I cant stop replaying her tenderness, the world slowed by her counting.
As she carefully, carefully chose my scallops for me––her gloved hands roaming the selection for the very best ones––I realized how deeply pandemic has made me miss this: the simple, ordinary ways strangers can show care for one another. Love, too, is a place we go. It is a force field activated between bodies through the ways we extend our generosity, our best listening, our extra care. As she lifted the ninth scallop, the tenth, & so on, I felt love mushrooming out gigantically from between us to umbrella us. I felt safe. We were both masked, but when I thanked her, her crinkling eyes meant she was smiling. She laughed, "No problem!" already turning to the next masked person in line, who she enthusiastically recognized as a longtime customer, "Where have you been! I've missed you!"
Walking home in the white rain, it hit me: this is really our planet. In all the terror, all the bad news, the conflict & delusion, a fish-woman can gently select twelve scallops for me with the care of a surgeon, of a monk, of a friend.
My friend, I have been tired. Exhausted really. Burned out from screens. Isolation from lack of socializing. & All manner of pandemic-related aches. I don't have a big whopper, doozy of a Zine for you today. What I have is a hot tangle in my left shoulder, a knot in my left hip, twelve scallops in my fridge, a sleeping cat beside me, a backlogged to-do list that won't stop climbing uphill. If love is a place, I have to believe that it's not just about stumbling into it, like lucking out on a secret room in a vast mansion. I have to believe it's this room: my body. Here, now. I have to believe that my body, not entirely mine, is connected to every big & little thing you could imagine. My breath depends on the trees around me. My eyes collect the distant pinpricks of stars & alchemize their old wisdom without my consent.
I'm a ravenous, loving place. I'm a powerful churning,
a candle with limited time to burn, but the light I emit flows outward in concentric gift-giving.
The poet Jean Valentine wrote, "Blessed are those / who break off from separateness / theirs is wild heaven."
I don't know that woman's name, her story, anything. I just know that her careful attention felt holy. Walking home with full bags sprouting kale & broccoli, the trees trembled in the wind & shook soft snowfall from their limbs down onto my hat. Folks around me looked cold, their bags full of green, quickstepping toward some place warm. I wondered if I looked as I felt. Blessed. To be walking through wild heaven, my lashes clogged by snow, surrounded by shovelers & children & dogs in small coats.
|
|
|
Love is a place we can create by noticing.
What are you noticing now?
• what colors jump out to you
• which sounds are closest, which are furthest
• is there a taste in your mouth
• what is the texture of your breathing
• collect twelve nearby objects with the care of the fish-woman
• say your own name like a delicacy twelve times
• permiss yourself easy shoulders
• frame a handwritten note of all your best traits
• give up
• if there's water nearby, sip it ridiculously slowly
• for twelve seconds, alter nothing, fix nothing, demand nothing
When you invite relaxation, who shows up?
|
|
• Time, directed by Garrett Bradley, left me absolutely breathless.
• There is so much beauty, tenderness & longing for belonging in Safia Elhillo's novel in verse, Home is Not a Country.
• I got turned onto Blair Thornley's visual art & have been swimming in her watery worlds ever since.
|
|
|
|
• While cooking breakfast I've been listening to Esther Perel's podcast Where Should We Begin? This morning I listened to the episode "I Don't Mean to Be Mean, But..." Witnessing Perel attempt to stay above water amidst "the contagion of disregulation" was powerful & humbling. A therapist transparently struggling? It's intense, so reader, beware. But if you're down for the ride, you'll encounter people in all their messy humanity & struggle to transcend patterns––famed therapist included.
|
|
|
|
Contrary to popular belief, there are myriad yous. There's the you that picks their nose absentmindedly, the you who dreams a disturbing (even to you) dream, the you who spaces out while a friend is talking, the you that you lock eyes with while you brush your teeth. Invite all these secret yous to a dinner party. What do they talk about? Who misbehaves? Who brought flowers? Who threw the vase?
|
|
|
|
April is almost here & with that, a brand new In Surreal Life session! In January we had a record-breaking 15 returning alumni. Whether it'll be your first session, or your sixth, we welcome you to a month of creativity, community & risk-taking!
🐣 Sign up up as an Early Bird 🐣
|
|
|
|
collage by Sarah J. Sloat
|
|
A little prayer for you:
If love is a place, hold your inner-landscape with as much kindness as you can. May your insecurities & fears, like marbles, be gathered gently in the hand. May they be examined in all their shimmer & cloud––they deserve to be seen for their particular truth. If love is a place, give your ecosystem a deep breath.
If love is a place, become it.
With ample maple syrup,
|
|
|
|
|
