83: April Ambles
Dear reader,
Walks by the water, under the shadows of tall trees, and in the midst of birdsong leave me thirsty for more.
I watch dabchicks go under the water, some already featuring their breeding plumage with reddish rust necks, while others remain a dull beige-brown. Cormorants sun themselves on rocks, flapping their wings furiously and cattle egrets fly over the water every few minutes and my gaze follows them until they disappear.
I see sunshine dancing on the water's surface, interrupted ever so often by the flashing red of moorhens. A lone grey heron perched on a rock in the centre of the lake, dips its beak into the water and I stop there and stare at it for a few minutes.
I sigh as the wind gently rustles through a copperpod tree stealing its blossoms in the process, and a carpet of bright yellow appears at my feet.
I walk over the fallen flowers; I am floating on molten sunshine.
Fading, drying leaves line every stone, every surface, and a part of me wants to fall to my knees and feel each one in my hands; rummage through them until I am sated.
I have come to love April in a way I never did before.
april ambles
strolling past me
with a whisper to follow
and so i go
right to the water’s edge
holding my breath
on tiptoe, as quiet
as i can be
and at night i find
its imprint deep in my soul
the sweet scent of summer
blooming and wilting
a souvenir, a keepsake
buried treasure
and in my dreams
i encounter its glory
a sigh escapes my lips
eclipsed by april’s kiss
In Florida, Taylor Swift croons, “And my friends all smell like weed or little babies” and I had to sit down for a minute, because has anyone ever painted a more accurate portrait of the 30s?
Both these paths lie open, and oftentimes they even converge, but what of the people who aren’t drawn to either? How do they navigate their way through life un-high on either drug without closing the door too firmly for good?
But Swift doesn’t linger long enough to answer this question. In fact, there isn’t much solace (or answers) to be found in The Tortured Poets Department. Her newest album is about laying bare all of her trauma and grief, and all of the rage she feels and if it takes 31 tracks to do it, then so be it. She needs to get it all out of her system.
And could the album be shorter, fresher and less repetitive? Yes, but hasn’t she finally earned the privilege of making her art for herself, and shouldn’t we all do that, always, anyway?
I Can Do It With A Broken Heart is perhaps a song that deserves to be studied illustrating with ease how even the person who seems to have it all can crumble on the inside whilst But Daddy I Love Him highlights the lofty (cruel) expectations we have from artists of her magnitude, sometimes ignoring the fact that they too are simply human and should be allowed to make their mistakes.
The commentary online regarding this album has been divisive, but through it all there’s this question on my mind. Would we hold her to these impossibly high standards and feverishly attempt to dethrone her at every step, if she wasn’t a woman?
Men have got away with plenty - both mediocrity and murder.
April has been a month of extreme heat, but also of serenity.
I have begun to find peace at last in the midst of crowds and getting through the day, through the evening has become easier in spite of the busier than ever schedule. It sometimes amazes me that my mind, my body have bounced back, that my social anxiety hasn’t staged a comeback.
While in its grip, I did fear that this would never pass; that life, my existence, would forever be braided with the nervousness that anxiety floods into my system.
But it did. Things did get better. And I had to put in the work to get here, but I did get here, and for however briefly I can dawdle in this place of peace, I will treasure it.
And every time I get through an evening without resembling a mess, a layer of bravery grows over my skin, further emboldening me to take another step forward, and so I move, step by step, day after day, onto the next.
In a departure from the last couple of years, I’ve spent my afternoons writing fiction, burying myself in worlds made of my imagination, lost to the realities and asks of the present. And attempting to write fiction, to build these worlds scares the living daylights out of me.
Perhaps my biggest concern with storytelling is the worry that it may be construed as my thoughts, my feelings, my life. A separation between the storyteller and the character is clear in my mind, but what of the reader’s mind?
How do I trust the reader?
And recently I’ve been seeing that perhaps that’s not what I’m supposed to do. I’m just supposed to write.
Conversations have nudged me in this direction, as has therapy, but nobody said it as well as Ms. Swift:
Now and then I reread the manuscript
But the story isn't mine anymore
- The Manuscript, Taylor Swift
I hope you find the words you’re seeking too, and that the universe sends it to you in an as beautiful way as it did for me this week. Thank you for reading Soul Gazing. If you enjoyed this post, please share it!
Love,
Sukriti