Nefelibata

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A friend sent me a really beautiful picture with a word that I am not even sure I can pronounce. The word – Nefelibata – describes a dreamy individual who dances to their own tune. I jokingly asked my friend if that was me. She surprised me when she said yes. I giggled, actually. Mostly because on my best day I would honestly wish I was this person.

I have written before that I think the writer version of me is my best self. I feel that I was built to be a writer but I just didn’t know. And so, my life has taken me down roads that leave me writer-adjacent with deep longing to truly live a writer’s life. I honestly think that if I had chosen the writing track, my life would have been totally different. In some ways, I hold a belief that there is a whole life that awaits me on the other side of embracing my Nefelibata-ness.

What remains astonishing to me is that even after all this time and after all those affirmations from the interwebs, the novelty of walking the road less traveled is more a marvel rather than a lived experience. What is this courage that I (maybe you, we?) need to really live? Maybe it’s not too late to try and be Nefelibata?

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By far, my funniest organ is this delicate heart

that remembers crazy and lovely moments

that exalts and condemns with breaths in between

that longs and connects with as much fervor as it disconnects

humor me.

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I see you lately and wonder if you remember even faintly

that we were naked and held together

by whispers and feelings and joining

and sighs and moans and secrets

and gazes shared in sacred and tight spaces.

I see you lately and wonder if we were worth

the tender longing for intimacies past

and wished for knowing, bared only in shared paces and

ambles in singular nearness.

I see you lately and wonder if we are worth remembering at all.

Rethinking Ema

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So when I first started this blog, I wanted to have a way of connecting myself as an author to my future audience. In my mind, I was going to be writing and publishing many many books every year. My dream was that I would be sensational and lots of people would want to know me… hehehe… and so my blog became performative in some sense. When I read these posts, I find only snippets of myself and wonder who this person was that wrote these words. They sound like they could be my words but they also give me a sense of holding back. Some posts are quite raw – showing my insides and make me cringe ever so slightly. Being witness to your past pain is quite a jarring experience. Being witnessed to a version that you have evolved from makes you introspect a bit more… So I guess in all this, I have a question – what is true now? What remains true? What is the essence of Ema?

I think I still want to write. I continue to write. I have some great days of discipline and some not so great days. I am surer of the voice in which I write. I am humble in my pursuit of this craft. This is truly a gift that flows its own course — to be subject to its whims is quite the lesson I sometimes need — being too sure of oneself has some downsides. I have less doubt and this makes writing that much easier. There are still stories inside me that are bursting to be told. I will try my best to honor this call. This is my greatest dream and it to be a prolific writer will be my greatest achievement.

What does this mean for Ema? The name lives on, I guess. I will continue to write and Ema will continue to publish. What I hope to create is a world that feels authentic to me – the storyteller me – you know, which is a small part of the other parts that make me, me!

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Promise me…

When you love that you will love with an open heart

That you will remember what is freely given is never in vain

That you will trust love’s wellspring from the core of your being

That you will realize that love doesn’t hurt as much as you fear 

And most of all, that you will allow love to complete itself in your existence and being.

Promise me…

That when you choose love that you will surrender

Because to live without love is the tragedy of any instance of life that you imagine.

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Everyone thinks they’re special.

Everyone should think that they’re special.

Everyone should feel that they are special.

Everyone is special.

Everyone is.

Every one.

Worthy.

Of listening

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Your voice, strong and measured, explained to my mother and father why we had to leave together. 

Mama always thought you were slightly short of worthy and I could never understand why. When I was young I thought money and provision were all a steady marriage needed.

Papa was not as vocal but often asked me if what you gave me was enough. My answers left much unanswered because the exchanges between Mama and Papa’s eyes were silent and swollen with opinion.

I realized I needed more when our marriage was a dry desert and when my tears dried, I had nothing but crusty yellow stains on my dark skin. Your money was unable to fill the gap in our union that needed even a splash of you to keep it going.

When your voice rang with promises of love and improvements, I could only scoff because years of waiting had made me weary of your promise. I walked out the door in exhaustion because the message between the lines reeked of your unknowing and I was unwilling to be your teacher. 

My parents reluctantly took my lead. To them it was the most personality they had experienced of you. They were reluctant because the surety of your body and language made them question my sanity. My responses to their questions were sighs of the tired that souls in purgatory are familiar. My parents eyes still had opinions but their words still gave me safe haven. 

At night, I had a dream. You came to me in the way I always wished you had in the time we were together. Instead of convincing my parents you spoke directly to me. Instead of promises, you asked for forgiveness. In humility you offered an opportunity to understand your heart. You asked me to hop on your precious motorcycle and ride to an unknown destination that offered respite from all your responsibilities and musts! I was seduced but denied myself for fear of hoping and being disappointed again. You left but only after a plea for me not to give up on you. My despair was far more relentless and I woke up with only sadness.

Your next visit and the next and the next, were designed to show me how much you loved me and needed me, when all I wanted was a sign that you were committed to the fragile vulnerability required to build the empire of us already thriving beyond the eyes of my heart. My longing for us to live in the constructed harmony inside me deafened the calls of your soul to mine. As ships in the night, we only missed collision but lost each other.

“Will you punish me forever?”

“You taught me to question my wisdom and knowing of you. Can I trust you ever?”

Re-awakening

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It’s been close to a year since I posted anything on this beautiful website. This year has been one of the hardest ones yet. I lost my writing mojo and lost my darling Father. It’s been grueling. Some days I know who I am and some days I am lost. The words to express the grief are just beneath the surface on my pain — but it’s so very hard to reach myself. And so I have been in a holding pattern.

I had a conversation with my brother yesterday. And I encouraged him about managing the sadness we feel by setting a minimum number of activities for each day. Right after Daddy died, I started with one activity minimum. I had to shower. And even then, showering was often not taking a real shower. It was hard. And then with time, I raised my minimum to three activities per day of which taking a real shower was not negotiable. You see, in the past, when I have battled depressive feelings, taking a shower has been so hard. So I knew if there’s one thing I should deal with decisively, it is showering. I leave the day open for two major activities that may include work or just managing life as an adult.

I feel like I am ready to make an upgrade to five activities per day. Showering properly is one of them and now, exercise is another. I have to put in at least 30 minutes per day. I think I will still leave two major activities open and for the last slot, I have to get the writing in.

Writing keeps me balanced and keeps me sane. It puzzles me when I am unable to write. I can’t tell if it is a sign of the state of my inner being or if it is a consequence of my true state of mind. I suppose it doesn’t quite matter. I need to do better because it really does make me feel better.

I guess my fifth commitment is about balance in the end. Writing gives me balance. And so I will write.

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kiss me.

taste me.

feel me.

simple. uncomplicated. desire.