one month of looking

As the sunlight dances around the wooden veranda overlooking the wild, un-manicured front garden of the paper-glass house I now call home, my heart is finally regulating. The contemplative 'Tete' compilation pulses in my ears and behind me sits my love, practicing his Kanji diligently. This light is my lubricant, I cannot study when my cold northern skin, deprived of light for this long yearns to be warmed through. Still, in October the day requires no coat, no woolen layer, no protection against the elements here. I am free. The nine neglected coiffured trees soak up my sun too, their swaying leaves kiss one another in the breeze. Tiny winged butterflies flit in the bamboo. The smeared thin glass and mosquito net frames sandwich the dust of living. The Grid of bleached persimmon cloth carries traces of turquoise, maybe yellow in the history of its former curtain glory. A faded sewing machine, stained vanity case, a water marked box, sepia dotted linens are my accompaniments in the warmest corner of here. Being present is what I am here to be. They all let me in, respectfully. 

I seek imperfections. I am at home with the beautiful flaws that surround me. The way that wooden screens stick/slide, the discreet/secret worn wooden locks, the gaping holes between uchi/soto (inside/outside). Everything here requires delicate attention to make it work. It is removed from the ease of modern living, and insists on an attentive mindful way of being. It is wonderful. 

The fear bouts come, they hit me hard and flaw me. They arise from my inability to understand, to be understood, to express. Involuntary muteness has never been a friend of mine. The choice in being silent is another matter entirely. That, I have always craved and required and practiced since being a child. My voice, therefore inaudible, is here in my head instead. I witness and examine, identify, store and house the moments I need, as a reference. For so long ideas have become buried. Piles and stacks of other more pressing matters, distractions, frivolity, ambition, resilience, have silenced them. I am excavating now. Lucky I am to be free of the attention deficit disorder I have lived with. Here I am naked of obligation. The only expectation I have of myself is to survive. Perhaps in time to thrive.

Here, my heart swells and tilts to the front of my chest when I experience the rawness. A magical rawness at being alive. I am tucked in tight between the futon and two blankets listening to the typhoon whirling in the moonlight. I soak swim in the depths of the Japanese bathing tub walking my eyes around every corner of pink peeling paint, telling its story. I celebrate and savour each simple bowl of gohan, cherishing its goodness (the teardrops of farmers). 

I see glimpses of my awareness in his reflections of me and I am love.