To not lose sight of feeling

check-in with yourself: we're growing, growing, whoosh

somewhere in hackney.

I was meant to reflect on a year past, over half a year ago.

I have a plethora of excuses. The slow formations of routine. The priorities I have placed in my work. The ambition of some shape of home here in London. I have been planting myself steadily and it is starting to show. Such things found and furnished over time— I’m grateful.

If I’m not careful, I might end up writing the same old story again. There has been little appeal in recounting so I have held off for so long. The exercise of sitting with myself keeps me company. I allow whichever emotion to present itself to me daily, monthly, on repeat. I try not to get too frustrated with the latter. I go about my days with few thoughts but what I want for dinner, what’s lined up for tomorrow. What is this strange everyday clarity paired with that unforgiving alone-ness kept ajar by my own resilience. Where does it come from? Of course I know where it comes from. It comes from where I am not. It precedes me and forsakes me, holds me in place, let’s me go too early, teaching me always how to come up for air on my own. I’m not sure I can write like I used to. I’m out of practice. I’ve paused on posting. You will have to make do with whatever this is.

Once spring arrives, we will mark two years.

I like marking progress less in what I’ve accomplished and more in how and where I’ve landed.

Of late, I’m noticing the way my memories of the city are beginning to stack up. The textures of particular walls remind me of others. They are an amalgamation of rooms I have caressed, streets I have enjoyed with colleagues, the usual suspects, fleeting hiccups and meant-to-be’s alike. This quest for permanence is only true by way of the ephemeral.

Before moving on/forward (case-dependent), I ask myself in what ways have I been moved. I don’t want to forget the particular emotions of particular moments. To remember wondering whether this was it, this is what it’s meant to feel like. To nestle into the bewilderment of something good come to a halt. To feel the calm spread through me. To admit to finding discomfort where I thought would be bliss. Either they’ve forgotten how to or they were never meant to feed me.

Or as I wrote before—

It’s important to acknowledge the ways in which we fail. The things that aren’t right for us. The things that aren’t left for us to decide on. (dec 31, 2021)

I commend a most fragile Jasmine on her feeling failure so personally (that was one shitty year), but let’s be better to ourselves— the bigger word in that line is we not fail.

To be moved by others, to feel the weight and lurch of their movements is important, but may we remember that we nurture our bodies with our own hands. I look myself in the eye and spell out what it is I want and deserve and how on earth I will go on without those who let me go.

In their departure, they tell me to go on— one by one they cry, go on!

To stumble on encounters and to remark on their spontaneity, their fateful sort of quality, their multiplying hues— of so and so’s cheeks, of the sky at this time of day, and the warmth of your own hands as they clasp at their cold. To layer it all with the faint smells of your most frequented coffeeshop, your laundry left out to dry in a damp room, the bright white light of the office, and the taste of something sweet. Let us dwell in the specificity of these pieces pulled together. Let us spend time with one another. Understand why it is that something, someone, somewhere draws you in.

Be both responsive and absorbent. Do not go numb. Do not lose sight of feeling. Not in a world like this.

Let us believe that these are our roots in formation, at present, small and unruly.

keep warm x