#21

In my meditation class, I was taught to imagine the 

sound of water whenever I am anxious. I think of a 

river flowing, bubbling as it goes, floating leaves on 

the water, a cascading shade of trees falling softly 

on the earth and laughter, a lot of laughter. 

It is a portending dream, but whatever I have learnt 

about safe spaces I know that they do not consist

of peace. At first. My therapist says, when you finally 

feel safe, you will break down, your body will cease 

its need to keep holding up. 

I know this to be true because I cried at work when

Z called and reminded me of how taken care I was,

how taken care of I am not. People who take you in 

as you are become verandahs you can walk into — 

protected, aromatic — you go to pieces in their midst.

The body holds grief, it keeps the score of pain and 

joy. That’s why they say you should dance, sweat it 

out, make yourself move, however. (There is a reason, 

after all, why athletes cry on international TV after 

putting their bodies through hell.)

I dream about the life I want to live, next to the river 

beyond the veil, even if it means having to let go of

 this ache to keep it all together. I owe it to my being 

— the falling apart of myself, grace of tears, numb 

hands et al. My body is my witness, it records it all.