Telling people I don’t currently have a job that pays me in a culture where a job is one of the most valuable things a person can have has been an interesting exercise of release, trust and groundedness for me.
And I don’t think that’s an exciting way to begin this post, for me as the writer or for you as the reader but, it has guided a lot of my mental state the last few days, maybe even weeks. I’m at a slight war every day with the future and the worry and fear that stems from it.
What I will be doing in the future is not my problem, in this moment, fear is my problem.
I think this is true for many of us.
Yesterday, I was finishing my breakfast with my aunt. We had hot chocolate and fresh bread from the bakery down the street which I can easily say is my all time favorite Colombian delicacy. I dream of the mornings when the sound of the molinillo hits the curve of the olleta. I can hear when the person mixing the chocolate has rings on or not as the wood twists in their fingers. As I drank my mandarine juice made with mandarines that were picked the day before from our stay in a little mountain town called Tibacuy, my aunt said I could have her juice as well if I wanted. A constant friendly fight between us. She would give me everything of hers in a heartbeat if she could and I constantly remind her and other family members who’ve inherited my grandparents’ overflowing generosity that there’s no need, I have my own.
“Pero ya después tú no vas a tener esto más. En cambio yo si, así que tómate el mío.”
I refused.
She frowned.
“No entiendo cual es el problema.”
I thought for a moment about what she calls problem. Why do I need to refuse the juice she offers even though I know it will bring her joy to give to me? Why did I feel discomfort in my body every time something like this happened? I think I can rationalize in two ways.
I want her to enjoy things for herself. To give all that love she pours into those around her back into herself. I recognize her way of being and relating is how most members of our family were raised: to give to others as much as you can; to be giving even if it means you will have less.
And when I thought harder, I recognized in her eyes and her tone of voice, a deep fear of the future. Of my departure. Of the moment when I leave and will no longer have fresh mandarine juice from the mandarine tree in Tibacuy picked by Ceci and guarded by Nemo, the dog. Fear that there will be a time in the future where I will drink another type of juice, sitting in another dining room, at a different time of day, and most importantly for this rationale, without her by my side.
It might sound like a lot for me to think about in just a few seconds through my refusal of a gesture but, everything is connected for me here, much more than it ever has been.
“¿Por qué piensas más en el momento en que no voy a tener esto que en el momento en que lo tengo? Ahora estoy aquí, tomándome el jugo contigo, si pienso en el momento en que no lo tendré, no lo voy a disfrutar.”
I’m surrounded by a lot of fear. Of the future. Of death. Of absence. Of scarcity.
But I’m also deeply enjoying the juice I drink. I notice it’s vibrant color like I never have before with little pieces of pulp ready to heal. I drink it and think of the tree it came from and the hands that picked it, and the rain that nourished it to make it so.
I spent the weekend picking fruit from trees, sitting on grass, looking over the mountain. Noticing the wind and the clouds it carried to and away from me. Away from my phone and the noise it brings.
I’ve been meditating most every day. Once you find the quiet, it’s hard to come back to the noise. Sometimes I do it twice a day, sometimes after a strong emotional response, in an attempt to let go of what I like and dislike and connect back with my path. Sometimes, I dig so deep in the quiet and stillness, that my hands melt into my legs and my legs melt into the ground, and the ground melts into space, where all that is left are whispers of me, becoming a part of everything and nothing at all - all at once.
Then, I peak into abuela’s room and see if she’s still sleeping. I’ll blow her a kiss and go downstairs for a coffee or hot chocolate and fresh fruit and I savor it like I’ve never had anything like it before.
That is my payment and for now, I’d say that’s okay.
This sums up so very much;
I thought for a moment about what she calls problem. Why do I need to refuse the juice she offers even though I know it will bring her joy to give to me? Why did I feel discomfort in my body every time something like this happened? I think I can rationalize in two ways.
I want her to enjoy things for herself. To give all that love she pours into those around her back into herself. I recognize her way of being and relating is how most members of our family were raised: to give to others as much as you can; to be giving even if it means you will have less.
And when I thought harder, I recognized in her eyes and her tone of voice, a deep fear of the future. Of my departure. Of the moment when I leave and will no longer have fresh mandarine juice from the mandarine tree in Tibacuy picked by Ceci and guarded by Nemo, the dog. Fear that there will be a time in the future where I will drink another type of juice, sitting in another dining room, at a different time of day, and most importantly for this rationale, without her by my side.