Relationships are everything. Connection is everything.
“I remember as a small child seeing the geese flying south. Firefly season. A cicada that lived for a while in the cracks of the cement bricks that made up our porch wall. A flash flood sweeping cars away while we were huddled under an overhang on a picnic. Lightning felling a tree in our backyard. I guess I learned that everything will pass.
But also, and equally true, it will all come back again.”
Karen Joy Fowler
Every week, S. and I have a call to talk about one thing, but we almost always begin with another. We ended up talking about this incredible piece (The Crane Wife) in The Paris Review. There has been an undercurrent of thinking about the shapes we think we have to take in order to invite love in; of how we make ourselves smaller, ask ourselves to need less in order to appear worthy of love.
The next day, I finished reading Deborah Levy’s The Cost of Living, in which she reminds us: “To separate from love is to live a risk-free life. What’s the point of that sort of life?’
AK is always talking to me about maintaining my mountain pose, and he asks me if my stubborn patterns in building relationships (or stumbling on/upon them) feels to me like accidentally stepping to a different dance that I already know the steps to. Absolutely! I respond. You can always tell what someone’s home dance is, based on the habits their bodies hold onto as they learn a new one.
I take time to remind myself that almost nothing in life is linear. Not our outward portrayal of success, not our bodies and health, not love, not relationships, not the greenness of my four plants in the windowsill, not the rhythm and pace of sleep. Growth doesn’t always look or feel like growth, sometimes it’s underneath the soil, sometimes it’s within our leaves, sometimes all your leaves turn yellow and drop to the ground in order for new life to grow again.
My sister and I grew in a womb together, and every time I spend time with her I feel in awe at how little I know about her, and how much we have both changed. The way we regard touch differently, and our love languages.
In yoga class, J. implores us to love the transitions just as much, if not more, than arriving at the pose itself. S. and I contemplate water and earth. One shapes the other.
Brecht says: But love is like war; it always finds a way. Perhaps he originally said it the other way around, but still.
On a Tuesday, we are in Korea Town claiming that we’ll go in for “just one song.” JD, whom I am meeting for the first time, says that he never sings “just one song”- it’s either hours, or nothing at all. We get a room for 8 people and stay for 6 hours (I mean, Jia did it too), because it’s cathartic to sing with strangers you’ve just met alongside friends you’ve known for decades. I’ve always had the intuition when I meet someone: is this person for good, or for just now? Karaoke has been a pretty good proxy. We accidentally sing from every Disney movie, shake it like a Polaroid picture, butcher Jay Chou, and B. serenades me with “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” after two-stepping with me in a circle, in a hoop that never ends.
