remembering to sing

I just passed through a really rough period where I felt lost, self absorbed, lonely, and so exhausted that I couldn't find the time to love myself, let alone anyone else. My heart hurt, my stomach grew tight, I cried, I missed home, I noticed every horrible aspect about life here and continued to compare it to the paradise of Oregon; I couldn't respond to the problems of my friends because I was so wrapped up in my own.

As I began to realize that People I haven’t heard from in ages, the friends on the periphery and the close ones too sent emails reminding me of who I once was and who I strive to be: someone who cherishes life and celebrates it with compassion, understanding and acceptance. My old roommate, Chris, sent an email mentioning a time he eavesdropped on me singing into the wind as I rode away from the house on my bike. A postcard from my dear friend, Jill: flowers in Paris; notes from close friends at home expressing frustrations that mirrored my own; a package from home full of chocolates and silly photos of my youngest sister. I can tell by the light in the photos that it is midmorning, and by her expression that my mom probably said, 'Hey, let me take some pictures of you to send to your older sister' and Kai probably rolled her eyes, then got into the role with her tongue deeply planted into her cheek. All these messages, images, thoughts tumbling in on me from far away, started to tug back at me. 'You are not alone', they all seemed to be whispering. It was strange to have such an influx at a time when it was most needed and least asked for. Perhaps more than anything, your messages gave me faith that I am more connected than I had originally thought.

Today, the sun is just as punishing as it was last week; I have just as much work and just as little time; I will still be called 'White girl', or worse ' Pink Ears' by strangers on the street; but something has changed. I have poked my head back out of the shell, and begin to notice that there is light outside. That light is the presence of people and love around me, close and far away. Rather than close my eyes and ears to the opening day, I stand on my roof and do yoga, then slip back downstairs to wake Yann with gentle touches on his back. I notice that perhaps it is more therapeutic for me than for him, watching my fingers trail across his smooth skin, the rise and fall of his body with the steady rhythm of his breath. In some way, me touching him was my way of also trying to touch everyone else who is reaching towards me through letters and emails and facebook comments. And these words are my way of saying thanks, instead of grabbing you in a hug as I would like to do.

I sit on the back of my moto on the way to work this morning, zipping past the Sotramas and dodging potholes. The aroma of early morning cooking fires mixes with the fumes of exhaust and heavy dust. I suppose it's no bicycle and these are not the deep green streets of Portland I loved to fly down. Nonetheless, I see my shadow float past the shops, and rather than notice the un-swept garbage, today I notice the quality of light on the oil stained street, and I hear my own voice in the wind, and it is singing.