by mposadasn

There is a way of passing away from the personal, a dying that makes one plural – Rumi

It’s been less than a week, and I feel my bones. I dreamt once that there was a vine growing around my spine, tightening its grip and the thorns were beautiful. Bones feeling open, and it’s as if they can touch those thorns and create a new pain- openness to growth. 

I did not feel deserving of the opportunity to be here; even so, everyone helped me to love this space and call it a home for me before arrival. Now arrived, only recently unpacked– walking home in a city that holds different accents and smells I sometimes want to avoid is terrifying. But, the growing emotions- the stubbornness to reply only in my americanmexican-French when the Parisians smell my nationality and speak to me in English instead. Courage, perhaps. 

Nobody likes travel blogs. But the last time I wrote here I experienced an awakening and a beauty of communal grief and courage to share a piece of my narrative. So I wanted to tell you about

How my laundry stayed in the washer for two days and I still wore them 

How nobody  takes American Express and I’ve been adopted by beautiful friends here that buy me dumplings and coffee

That I’ve fallen asleep reading and crying, whether triggered by each other or at separate times…

That there were words I dreamt for myself the last time I wrote, and fears I expressed before I wrote: of breathing thunder and forgiveness, of fearing memory. These, now a prayer 

To grow intuition and knowledge, to grow in love and openness, to forgive 

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