Connect The Dots

I define myself by the things that I love, by the things that make me feel most alive in the being part of. That is what sings to my true nature, and I respond in the most effortless way because it is instinctive. Like each time I pick up a guitar and the string rattles enough to make a sound but not a note. It is not quite a breath and almost a whisper – carrying a secret and a promise only my fingers can translate. Or when I step foot into a foreign country, depart the platform in Bergen and dive into shin deep white powder. Face buried and breathing in the fallen clouds I couldn’t touch from the plane. The locals looking at me weirdly thinking “just another Wednesday”, and me face down with muffled giggles making snow angels and forgetting the 15 years in waiting. Or the way I sometimes like to close my eyes and think I hear the flutter of oversized butterfly wings as I let my thumb quickly pass over the edge of each page in a book. That sound, an intermittent machine gun of ‘frtrtrtrs’. Then I think of the forest these 2 covers and bound print were once a part off, and that each turn is the flick of a branch upon outstretched hands, gliding through a grove.

When I pour the liquid into my tea cup, the meniscus captures the light from so many angles and for a moment looks so polished it’s black. In that black I see silt and fragments of leaves and tiny bracken, all which makes what looks like a milky way or galaxy in its surface. And I drink the universe, one sip at a time. And that is how I live my life. One sip at a time. In a quiet room or a raucous cafe, a park filled with bird song and rustling green, or a rooftop where the heat of urban industrial air conditioner exhausts dances with the aimless breeze. A traceless yin yang that only breathes of balance and an invisible waltz. And it fills my lungs and puts the dust of skyscrapers inside me. I become a giant and can press the heavens, rearrange the constellations into a morse code that tells me what heights I’ve known. That reminds, after I exhale and am once again small, that there is stardust on my fingertips. And still 37 sips left in my pot.

That is who I am.

night_tea_by_rock_lady-d4mj8m8*Picture is linked to the artist

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