into the passage

I have no clue what the fuck I want to do with my writing anymore. It feels like a dried up riverbed, and the villagers keep coming with buckets and their dirty clothes and the corpses of their elders asking where is the water? We must perform the rites and Mother Nature has left us bereft.

Whatever little water seeps out of the dry, cracked earth is taken for cultivation and harvest. I have been trying to write all summer. I wanted to write about my early days traveling in India, being again in a hostel and meeting eclectic people. I wanted to write about new experiences with intimacy I was having and how they reflected my earliest childhood experiences. I wanted to write about my breakup, my rupture and repair cycle with my mom. I wanted to write about studying tantra and finding nourishment and ground amidst personal and collective chaos.

Out of the ever-hardening clay of this riverbed, a small sprout grows. Light green, and supple, as I look more closely this is not a baby plant but the very youngest growth of a sturdy, twisting vine. I follow it underground into a cavern lit by luminescent fungi. Here, finally, is the flowing water, an overwhelming force of flow and energy. I want to swim, to receive the gift of fresh ideas and unbridled emotion. But it’s too strong. I dip one leg in and the water threatens to pull me in.

I will sit here and do my (w)rites.

The crashing of the furious river is a soft yet ever-present cleansing noise. I can barely hear the clamoring of the villagers above, demanding that the water be brought above ground. Sweet relief. The fungus produces aromas that remind me of a childhood spent in the mud. Biking around, discovering new roads and paths. Getting scolded for curiosity and a sense of wonder.

I ask the ancestors what they would do here. Eyes closed, I sing with the river, learning to listen for her choreography and instruction. My body thrums along with low tones, chest vibrating no longer from the shiver of cold but instead the feeling of oneness with earth, a sensation passing through my sacrum and belly until the very top of my head is the summit on which salt and stone collect each other.

I realize that I am not alone in this dimly lit passage, not nearly the first to search for meaning and nourishment here. Mounds of sand and rock line the pathway alongside the river. Anthills and cairns and fleshy fungal bushes. I start walking, my hand idly brushing against each unique sit-spot, each texture telling its own story.

I don’t know where this is going. If you’re here with me, I can’t promise any kind of resolution or ending. The light is dimmer here, and the path slopes downwards. Despite the rushing water to my side my face feels cool and dry. At moments I get tired, looking back at the crack in the earth through which some sunlight has escaped into the passage. As the heat of the outer dry land fades, so does the meager warmth it offered.

Let’s pause here and stretch for a moment. I want to ask you a question. Why did you come here with me? I feel your presence, your attention. Are you here because you want to connect? Are here because you want something from me? What do I, who has struggled to offer anything “of value”, have left to give?

My tears are close now. I am yearning for a reason to put myself out here that goes beyond merely being seen. I’m yearning for connection and commiseration. Fully aware of how much easier it is to express myself when I’m sitting next to someone, I actually have so much to say. But lately I have found it excruciating to write. Who am I writing for?

Maybe I need to invite you into the room more. I want to feel your presence. I want a hug. I want to offer you tea and ask you how you’re doing before we get into it. I want to know who you are and how you are?

Writing for an audience feels like writing into the void. I don’t know if you actually care. I don’t know if you’re going to judge me or exile me or simply stop reading and never tell me you did so. I don’t want this kind of relationship.

But here I am, writing about writing. Making sense of sense making. I want to unburden this from being a place where I have to be perfect, or even where I have to be good. I just want the water to flow freely, and if it’s got a stench and the music is weird and uncomfortable, so be it. I think that might be why you came down here with me anyways.

The tunnel opens out into a wide cavern. Flowers of all colors sprawl out into the space. There is a new aroma here, the smell of butter and onions and shiitake mushrooms. A cauldron sits in the center of the space, kept warm by a small fire.

Let’s sit here for a while. There’s some food for all of us. It’s a long road ahead and we may as well cherish this moment, too.