I recently made soup while wearing only underwear. This lack of classic attire was neither a rebellion against the confines of restrictive clothing (if I had a nickel…) nor was it in hopes of seducing the various raw vegetables (don't act like you haven't noticed -- vegetables are sexy). Far from scandalous my reason for rocking "the toddler" was because I simply could not find the gumption required to get dressed. Since when has getting dressed required gumption, you may be wondering? Since this week, I would answer. Nakedness by lack of gumption, she cried.
Actions like 'donning pants' do in fact require energy; science has proven it. On this particular day math and science combined: I had only enough mojo to do one thing. I chose soup.
And so my day continued. I made the soup. The soup was good. I remained naked. No one cared that I was not wearing clothes. No one laughed or chastised or cheered or whistled or became concerned or fell in love or slapped my ass or copied me or felt condescending or got offended. No one had any reaction whatsoever because no one saw ("Thank GOD," my parents are thinking).
If a woman cooks soup in her underwear and no one sees, is she still indecent? ("YES!!!!"… sorry, just my Dad that time).
I think she is. But I am not entirely sure.
I am realizing more and more that I feel undeniably out of sync when I do not have a witness or when I refuse to witness. It is the absolute driving rhythm by which I exist - my heartbeat. Not just to be seen of course, but to be known and to know.
To communicate is to breathe, and to go through life without that breath would not be any life at all... and also makes it difficult on some days to acquire pants.
The more I isolate the more easily I can become invisible, my skin becoming transparent and my blood fading to air.
The depth at which my lungs can take in air is the depth at which I am in relationship. When this air in my lungs grows shallow, because of isolation or language or depression, I start to fade. Or so it feels in my ever-visual world. Remaining unfaded and embodied has grown more challenging living thousands of miles from the people, landscape and language I know and love the most.
I am so very lucky to live here, and I love it : but not a day goes by that I do not think, "My GOD the air here is thin."
I was reminded this year (as if I needed another reminder) of how much I love books and movies: because in reading and in watching I am moved beyond myself and my solitude into someone else's life and into someone else's story. What magic this is!
All books and movies are exhibitionists, and people are no different. It is like deep down we are all Stuart from MAD TV, jumping maniacally, twitching and yelling "LOOK AT ME!" He has long been a hero of mine, for obvious reasons.
I think we also witness the earth. Long runs center and illuminate me in a way nothing else does, each foot pounding and pulling against the earth, the ground reminding me that I exist, that I am felt, that I am grounded yet also flying. The stars that expand me, the bugs that bite me, the fish I hunt and catch and then kiss and throw back : these are a different sort of witness, but a witness nonetheless. My breath deepens. My skin darkens.
Paintings long to be seen. Stories long to be told. Races long to be run. Soup longs to be tasted. My ass longs to be slapped.
If I cannot interact with the world surrounding me when I travel, then to hell with travel. And when I stick a flag into the ground and yell, "HOME", if just then I cannot see the art, love the person, listen to the story, explore the city, taste the soup and slap the ass, then to hell with flags.
I annoyed so many graduate students when I was a teaching assistant after reading their brilliant, academic papers filled with excellent writing and solid research, by then leaving the comment, "So what?"
If all that I
learn and do and know and fail at and eat and drink and wonder about and dance with and scowl at and create and delight in and grieve and long for
does not have a witness (a listener, toucher, learner, lover, hater, taster, watcher, teacher, critique, fan, partner) then to hell with all those things I have done: soup to masters degree.
My itty-bitty-tiny baby 19 year old brother sent me a short video of himself singing a song that I had mentioned over Christmas vacation always made me cry. In the video his friend plays the guitar beside him, and my brother's face while singing is as lovely and nakedly sincere as his beautiful voice.
At the very end of the short song he smiles at me and that's where the frame freezes: his smile. His smile portrays so much love I can hardly bear it. His smile also speaks of so many other things that only a younger brother can feel about his older sister. Compassion, perhaps? Gratitude? Acceptance? Concern? A unique combination of emotions and experiences mixed together to create his love for me, revealed in that smile. Unlike any other love, because we are unlike any other two. This is what I mean by witness.
I hear his song and I see his smile and my breath deepens, my skin darkens.
If a woman lives very far from the people and land she loves, does she still exist?
Yes.
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