seven hours into a 15 hour overnight flight delay in a city without any available hotel rooms due to an international softball tournament, my eyes burn, my back aches, and i have a pinched nerve in my neck. i lie down on the filthy airport floor and imagine varied options for an endurable death because at that moment i don’t want to schlep my skinbag of bones for another forty or fifty or sixty years. i think of a few deaths that appeal to me: plane crash if i die on impact, stroke during sleep, lightning strike while meditating on a mountaintop. i think of other deaths i hope skip over me: cancer, aids, plague, starvation, shark attack, lethal injection, kill-quantity of fire ant bites or paper cuts. after a minute of this death list (i often think about dying, so the ideas come quickly), i sit up and decide to do something else. i eat a fiber bar because i feel bored and tired and cranky-achy and i’m dreading the next seven hours and 57 minutes of my sentence in airport purgatory. i wet my eyes with lubricating drops (eye drops improve my mood for at least 20 seconds) and try reading a book but i can’t follow the family tree of characters. my eyes want to close again. i lie down on the floor that has already germed my clothes and stare at the bright ceiling light through closed eyelids, seeing a world with a bright red backdrop and nothing in the foreground. i wait several minutes for a thought to arise. my mind doesn’t move. my mind is silent. eventually my snarky brain mocks, “i bet if you were meditating right now a tangled troop of monkey thoughts would swing through your mind.”
instead of meditating, i begin writing a love letter to you posing a question to pluck out overlooked parts asking for our attention.
who are you?
i love you already.
please tell me who you are today.
tell me who you are becoming.
because reciprocal relationships feel best to me, i continue my letter by answering the question i pose to you.
i am a finder of thoughts and things that play hide and seek. i am a temple priestess, an oracle, a channel for words from someplace larger and lighter and wiser than myself. i am a mother without children and an orphan with living parents. i am a rebellion within a peaceful sit-in. i am the asterisk for every footnote. i am the plastic dinosaur inside a fern-filled terrarium and the live spider residing underneath your bathroom sink. i am the first sip of beer, the second glass of wine, and the third shot of tequila. i am a healer of hurts and the love between the sun and moon. i am a marshmallow roasting inside the memory of childhood campouts. i am the carved heart containing our initials drawn on the sidewalk when the cement was wet. i am a shape-shifter and seed-sprouter and crystal-captured light-refracted rainbow on the wall across from your office window. i am a traveler of here and there. i belong everywhere and come from nowhere. i am the audience for your manifesting dreams. i am the keeper of your secrets. i am the pause between breaths urging you to do whatever task you need to do, whatever project you want to do, whatever undertaking you are afraid of doing. i feel you beside me. your presence is strong, brave, and powerful. you can do the thing that most frightens and excites you. i love you. tell me who you are.