Sliding on Broken Glass

There is a smile on the outside

yet

My heart,

A one-legged-sort-of-snail

Slithers on broken glass

It bleeds and blisters my chest

My lungs are bags of dried out cloths

 

I sift hope through a sieve of thought

And light, dappled

Dries the blisters one by one.

 

Oh, what a lot of time to heal…

When your embrace would make

this sort-of-one-legged-snail

a meadow in bloom.

I pray to a God gone

On a long holiday

For your love made touch.

 

Profa de mate si inteligenta emotionala

Motto: Faith is empowered potential

 

Întâlnirea mea cu matematica a fost una drastică. Adulţii din viaţă mea îmi povesteau cu groază că în clasa I va trebui să învăţ tabla înmulţirii. Eram un copil foarte inteligent, dacă e să mă evaluez retrospectiv, aşa că, atitudinea adulţilor nu avea deloc sens. Probabil voiau să fie înţeleşi în suferinţa lor de a fi forţaţi să înveţe tabla înmulţirii.

Întâmplarea face, că în clasa a II-a mama mea s-a îmbolnăvit. Săraca maică-mea se ruga să nu moară până fac eu măcar zece ani. Trăiam într-o groază perpetuă. Îmi muşcăm degetelele şi mă trăgeam de par. Bineînţeles, în ascuns. Reacţiile mele arătau de parcă îmi jeleam mama.

La asta se adauga şi povestea pe care o auzisem prin uşa, cum că mama se îmbolnăvise de când m-am născut eu.

Deci , pe lângă groaza şi frica ce îmi dominau fiecare celulă, se mai adăugase şi vina de a mă fi născut.

Şcoala devenise un calvar. Învăţătoarea mea, o femeie voluptoasă, pe la 35 de ani, tunsă scurt şi înfiptă era recunoscută pentru rezultatele bune pe care le aveau copiii din clasa ei.

Eu,  Marina, elevă din clasa a II-a A nu mai aveam rezultate bune. Mi-era frică şi voiam să mor. Aşa cum un copil de opt ani vrea să moară. În tăcere, nevăzut.

Relaţia mea cu un Dumnezeu nemilos se rezuma la rugămintea mea către el(pe atunci mi-l imaginam bărbat) ca toată boala mamei să o pot trăi eu;  în mintea mea eu eram responsabilă pentru asta.
Boala era de fapt datorată unui avort ilegal, de pe vremurile întunecate. Eu aveam să aflu despre asta ceva mai târziu.

Nu mă mai puteam concentra. Şcoala devenise copleşitoare. Nu mai reuşeam să-mi termin temele. Dimineaţa învăţătoarea se uita pe caietele de teme şi mâinile îmi transpirau. În stomac mă loveau pumnii fricii. Într-o zi, învăţătoarea îmi spune: “Marina, nu ştii că maică-ta e bolnavă? Nu ţi-e ruşine? De ce nu-ţi faci temele?”

În drumul spre casă am tot lovit o pietricică. O urmăream şi o loveam cu pantoful. Aşa cum mă loveau şi pe mine toate. Pe lângă plopii de lângă calea ferată vedeam unicornii. Se perindau poveşti printre gândurile mele, unde mă puteam ascunde. Din podul imaginaţie mele coborau îngeri. Cu ei îmi plăcea să vorbesc… de Dumnezeu mi-era frică. Era înspăimântător şi pe mine nu mă iubea. Şi nici nu mă voia pe pământ.

Ani de zile am urât matematică. Până în clasa a VI-a. Familia mea se mutase din oraşul natal. Locuiam acum într-un sat în care mă simţeam străină şi singură. Ştiam că nu sunt bună la matematică, numai că doamna Vera reuşise să-mi capteze atenţia. Îşi iubea meseria. Iubea matematică şi găsea modalităţi să o aplice în mai multe domenii precum în poezie, sintaxa, structura textului, design, etc. Nu îmi făceam temele, dar îmi plăceau orele de matematică. La una dintre întrebări am şi ridicat mâna. Profa m-a scos la tablă, dar nu am putut să rezolv toată problema pentru că nu ştiam formulele. Şi profa, dolofană şi şugubeaţă ca o bunica îmi spune: “Marina, văd că te duce mintea, da’ mai trebuie să munceşti! Data viitoare!”

Cuvintele ei erau pline de şarm şi de o tandreţe ironică. Acelea ale unui pedagog experimentat care vede un potenţial şi crede tăcut într-o elevă. Tactul pedagogic cu care se înarmase în atâţia ani îi oferea siguranţa că nu trebuie decât să planteze o sămânţa unde trebuie ca aceasta sa dea roade. O fi fost plantată o sămânţa de ambiţie sau curiozitate? Habar n-am! Ceea ce mi-a schimbat atitudinea a fost faptul că, deşi nu eram o sculptură perfectă, profa a avut încrederea atunci că pot deveni încă una dintre operele sale.

M-am pus astfel cu burta pe matematică. Cu bucurie şi entuziasm. A fost una dintre cele mai frumoase aventuri din copilăria mea. Noaptea visam calcule. Ziua mă plimbam pe laturile formelor geometrice, intrăm înăuntrul piramidelor şi resolvam mistere. Până când profa m-a trimis la olimpiadă. Dificultatea reprezenta acum o provocare pe care abia aşteptam să o întâmpin, nu un chin de care să tot vreau să fug.

Însă, înainte de concurs, a mai existat un episod. Pe vremea aceea începusem să scriu poezii. I le-am dat profei de română. Doamna Vera le-a văzut în cancelarie. A venit cu ele la mine, foarte îngrijorată. Mi-a spus că tristețea asta nu-i sună bine şi că pot să mă îmbolnăvesc. Nu mi-a spus că sufăr de depresie şi anxietate, dar a fost singura care şi-a dat seama de strigătul după ajutor scris în acele poezii infantile, de care, poate, nici eu nu eram conştientă. M-a luat de mâna (avea o mâna dolofană şi caldă) şi mi-a spus că ar trebui să privesc şi spre lucrurile frumoase. M-am simţit iubită şi validată. Întru totul.

Uneri, experienţele de intimitate reală vin de unde nu ne aşteptăm.

De o vreme am observat că emoţiilor le aparţine o ştiinţă aparte şi uneori chiar o logică matematică.

Facem milioane de calcule în viaţă. A estima şi a evalua procesele emoţionale cu măiestrie ţine poate de iscusinţa unor adevăraţi matematicieni. Dacă am reuşit vreodată să “calculez” emoţiile, e posibil să fi învăţat asta de la o adevărată maestra. Iar emoţia principala pe care o simt faţă de dumneaei este cu precădere cea de recunoştinţă: un derivat înălţător al iubirii.

Eu sunt una dintre mulţimea de eleve/elevi pe care i-a avut  în grijă doamna profesoară în cei 38 de ani de învăţământ. Toţi cei pe care am avut şansă să-i întâlnesc, îşi aduc aminte cu haz şi mare drag de orele de mate.

 

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I am not a Romantic

Photo by Alberto Pomares

I am not a Romantic.
I like that peace between two people that don’t need to speak to fill a silence that’s uncomfortable.
I love the smell in the kitchen when we both cook or wash the dishes.
The embrace in bed when they could have sex but hugging is just as great.
Wearing his clothes with no apparent reason so I can feel tiny and protected. My hand on his leg as he is driving. Him holding my hand. That soft gentle secret hug of two differently shaped hands.
I love us laughing for reasons that only us know. I like teasing you with things that only I know about you. And I secretly, only secretly like it when you tease me too. When you roll my arrogance over tripping it over with an ironic frown. That’s when I kiss you, knowing that you already forgave me and already think that deep inside me I am not really that arrogant.
I am not a romantic. I just love this intimate dance.

Doodles. A way out of anxiety. A way into creativity

I started doodling when I was 15 … It was compulsive. All the pages at the back of my notebooks were doodles.
After a while my class mates wanted me to doodle for them.
I was pleasantly surprised.

It is no longer taboo that throughout my life I had to sit down and talk to Little Miss Depression and her older sister, Anxiety. Putting pen on paper and letting things have their way calmed me.

I never learned how to draw properly. Never developed any technique. I just do it so I can get a sense of peace.
Doing something without a particular goal can have a beautiful effect on your soul.

You get a sense of a  place where you don’t have to prove anything, don’t need to fit in a frame, simply letting it flow.

Curiously enough, it is when you don’t set your mind up to be original and you just let go,  that creativity rains out of you as if you were a cloud transforming into rain drops.

Originality is a big concept. Sometimes overlapping with perfectionism.
Creativity oftentimes comes in small joyful bites.

Doodling is just one way to be present with your inner child who’s playing with a stick, unapologetically and with no apparent reason.
But isn’t joy a good reason to do things?

when her smile crumbles into agony

when her smile crumbles into agony

the world changes from sweet to sour.

she feels guilty and she doesn’t feel the need to be trapped in a bundle of flesh and skin.

she’d rather feed the trees, like a child feeds a duck in a park.

after all those years of perfectly crafting a story to fit her desire,

she’s killing all her characters.

there’s only the Pain left who was hiding behind them

– her face defiant.

The girl said, “you’ve come back!”

“I have! I was never gone, in fact that was me playing all your characters,

surrounding you with the same feeling, but only a bearable version in a smaller portion”

the girl did her thing, killed all her story’s characters in a blink of an eye…

there she was.

alone, like a newborn in the unbearable cold air,

filling her lungs with the pain.

After a while, the horizons broadened.

the next story is about to begin,

but the girl took her time, waiting in silence for it to start.

Together

My little incredible life( A fictional self)

Mountain that dreams of being me: water and air

I erode it’s margins

I etch wrinkles in on its forehead…

I gain meaning despite my volatility.

My hands are evaporating on its chest…

I am haze.

We grow forests together.

United:

This voluptuousness is painful with a new fear:

Loneliness is an illness I can only cure myself of alone.

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Takeaway Husband

I have no sit on this train
I squat on this dirty floor.

I put my take away dreams on the side.
That way I can postpone their pursuit forever
Or until they will go off like fish,
Rotting away in my soul’s fridge.

I look up – there’s a Match dot com add
I have a future husband already , I say.
I picked him up in a rush like one puts an item in an online basket.
He cries at the back of my mind tangled up in miscellaneous thoughts.

My womb is hurting from imagined abortions .
Jealousy gnaws at my putrefied soul.

Death cajoles my tired self.
The tramps tell me they like my shoes.
I don’t, my future husband likes them…

Still, I have no sit on this train…
I’ll get off and get the next one
That way I can postpone the arrival
To that somewhere I don’t want to reach.

Sex Drive

Autumn calls death with voluptuousness
Look at me . Forgive me. Love me
Quench my thirst for skin on skin touch
I want to redeem the world though I have not yet reached my redemption

I’ll therefore force you to see the beauty of my sadness
I’ll lend you my eyes so you can see me in ways in which
I ceased to see myself

I’m selfish and I’m ashamed of it
Melt my shame! Kill my fears!

Delve in the glorious nectar

From the lips of a late bee
Flowers of a tree-
Succulent-
from roots digging the earth full of unthinkable sacred monsters
Reaching for The Goddess whose mystery is yet untouched.

Breakup: A Shortcut to Wisdom

They embrace as they look outside the window. The light sieves through the curtains mingling with her tears.
 They have been talking. There isn't any real solution. They will break up and it hurts tremendously although they feel grateful for this story that became larger than the time they have been granted together.
 Lidia met Damian in a club in Bucharest, nothing fancy.
 She loved telling her friends about the moment he called her for the first time. She was just visiting Romania, not intending to stay. So she told him there isn't much of a point to see each other again.
 "I might get a spam message from you for Christmas!" he said jokingly
 Christmas came and surprisingly Lidia called. Just for fun.
 He asked who it was. She was embarrassed by the situation and hurried to say that it didn't really matter.
 Hey, that is not really fair, now, is it? Let me guess. Is this Lidia by any chance?
 Yes, she responded.
 Intrigued, she continued: How did you recognize me ?
 It's not that hard, it's your attitude!
 She couldn't find a word that described her attitude but she figured it was something that had to do with the reluctance vs willingness to speak to him and she blushed.
 Conversations between them were a delight. They rested in each other's thoughts with relish and after days of talking for hours, she had to invent a reason to see him.
 She is a curious kind of girl.
 She wore a large hat and she was nervous thinking that meeting a complete stranger was such a silly thing to do. I really need to grow up! He might be a serial killer! were the thoughts played on repeat in her mind. What's more, she couldn't even remember what he looked like any more. He must be attractive if I gave him my contact, she thought
 When he arrived, she recognized him the minute he said hello. He had the warmest voice and the calmest demeanour. She looked up, her eyes showing sheepishly from under the large brown hat.
 She stayed over in his place, on 14 Little Lavender Street for 3 days and they both entered the dimension of bliss. They held hands and acted as if they had been living in that place for ages, they learned how each other had his cuppa', about theirs grandparents and friends and dreams and hopes and had the hungriest sex. She even read out loud The Little Prince and The Velveteen Rabbit. Her flight to London was in 4 days. She lost that flight.Her brother booked her flight from a different airport. Funny, isn't it?
 Truth be told, she was never too upset! He laughed( a lot!) then urged her to come back to his place.

Conveniently, she left her tooth brush there, as she was clumsy and forgetful and he adored her sometimes just because.


  Long story short: Romance was on!
 Due to another project she happened to have in Romania they spent time together and the fact that they were so happy was no longer just an illusion they could blame on the hormonal hype.
 They were still hopeful when she went back to London. What can distance destroy when they had so much in common, so much to share and even a few happy memories.
 But when 5 months have past and they haven't seen one another, both their lives too complicated and impossible to bring together, their next encounter was painful.
 Underneath there was the same love and respect but the reality that they lived in different countries, different lives, was screaming with frustration.
 The elephant in the room was all grown up now and it was impossible to ignore.
 There were tears. There was the talk and the unutterably cruel conclusion stroke: breakup.
 Damian wasn't the first boyfriend she had. She got hurt many times, she got emotionally abused until she learned all the mechanisms of the abuser, she even tried to have open relationships (She just wasn't suited for it) , and eventually she wriggled out of the script her insecurity was condemning her to. Then she chose to be alone. And that was her idea of safety or at least the closest she ever felt to safety anyway.
 But Damian melted all those toxic believes that safety means loneliness and isolation or lack of hope. His steadfast unconditional presence diffused all the wet mouldy walls she built around her heart. She learned what true safety meant: it oozed with affection and mutual respect and love and space to make mistakes and be forgiven. She had the chance to be 100% herself and that was something that she had never hoped for.
 Damian was also grateful for the magic, friendship and her honesty.
 This relationship represented the key that unlocked another kind of freedom for both: togetherness. A sort of freedom with enhanced benefits. This new discovery was the confirmation that they were lovable, imperfect yet magical, respected, admired, adored and above all, unconditionally accepted.
 He said:" We burned into the purest essence" And she knew exactly what he spoke of.
 They were magicians that fell in love with their own spell.
 In a way they were releasing into the world a whirlpool of love that was forever going to change each other and more.
 As she was watching the sunset she sobbed. Ahead of them lay their own missions to complete. They were young enough to hope against all odds but old enough to realize that not reaching their goals was going to turn them into a bitter couple. They both knew that not setting each other free was going to take away from the purity of their relationship.

Now they embrace knowing that they would never have chosen otherwise. She feels grateful that she lost that flight. He is happy that she stayed on, even if her departure will mean her unbearable absence.

They felt strangely wiser...
 They had the chance to recognize their true selves. No matter what definitions they may have worn, they were courageous enough to drop their shields in front of each other. They learned quickly that the strength of their relationship stood in their freedom to be as vulnerable as possible.
 They wished upon their dearest friends this kind of love. And now, they were stepping out into the unknown, the cold unfriendly space of randomness but with the certainty that LOVE Happens .

 

The Anatomy of Loneliness

Coffee
Substitute for meaning in the morning
My eyelids stop embracing my irises
Like tulip petals
Wilting with life

My mind
Wired in thoughts
On the anatomy
Of loneliness.

I get jealous
With all the people I create in my mind

Words grow taller in me
Like oak trees
Sucking the water
Out of the mud

Roots
Enormous
Like their crowns.

Roots
Condemned to anonymity
For their crown’s beauty.

From damnation
To self hatred
Outstretches the perverse pleasure
Of misery.

“We all have some venom
That is deeply rooted”
I say
Over the phone

“Sometimes we crawl

Like worms

Hoping that one day

We’ll finally be butterflies”
I guess some of us had to be just worms
I say to myself
My friend already preaching
Positive thinking
When
I
For all I know
Am trapped
In the anatomy
Of misery.