I slept hard.
After a day of verbal volleyball over the phone, my mind knew it needed a reset. By 10 o’clock I was fast asleep.
As is often the case when I am the only human in my big bed, I slept crossways, my head towards the fan, my body enjoying taking all the room it wanted.
I slept hard, I slept deep, and when I heard the first roosters crowing, the dark green velvet curtain of slumber started to slowly, gently part. I kept my eyes closed, cherishing this brief and sacred moment between two worlds. Just being.
And then, the words.
I LOVE YOU, said my mind - or was it my soul?
I love you, I said back.
At the time, and a few moments later, the three words came with a list of who and what they were intended toward. I heard the list and it was poetic, rich, and lovely. Now it’s gone and I am not going to chase it nor make it up.
I opened my eyes to see that the sky above the jungle was also waking up. Slate blue, not letting on how bright blue it will be in a couple of hours.
Lila and Tiji felt my return to the world we share and excitedly demanded breakfast.
I got up and walked to their food bowls barefoot, careful not to step on any potential scorpion. I am pretty much always on alert about scorpions.
Getting back in my bed, I checked my phone just as I was telling myself not to do it. I know how spongey and vulnerable our morning mental space is and I know I know I know that there is nothing in that little rectangle that’s nutritious first-food fare. I know that all of it can wait, I know that meditating or writing or even sweeping the floor is the best choice and yet, I turned on my phone.
And there was Wadea.
I have to trust that seeing his little face, learning about him, and re-learning about the horrible pain that exists in human hearts is the mental breakfast I needed today. I have to trust that the way I feel right now, wanting to throw up and desperately reaching for my keyboard is the way I need to feel. I can look for reasons why that is, I can invent them to distract myself or soothe me. Or I can let them show up. I can go for a walk in the taller-than-me grass and hope that the nausea goes away, or I can sit with it. Sit with the too-muchness of it. Yes, that’s it: the too-muchness.
Who cares WHO blew up the hospital? What are we going to do once we know WHO blew it up? Are we going to bring people back? Maybe half of them? Are we going to heal the hearts of the families “on the good side?”
And Wadea. All across the world from a country he never knew, his little hands making half a heart so his dad would make the other half. What about him? What about the man who became a victim of panic, of hate, and seemingly betrayed his own heart, letting violence take over his whole being for some moments that he can never take back?
I have no nugget of wisdom to end this. I just have some quiet.
And the memory of the feeling of these words, from my in-between world an hour ago and from what feels like a decade ago.
I love you.
SCARED OF THE SACRED