/ by Siobhán Cronin

And just like that, it seems I've arrived at the place I had determined would be the starting point. The moment when I would begin to find words for it all. That it has arrived before I feel ready seems fitting. When has it ever felt "right" to jump into the mess of finding words for what it means to experience living?

When I was in elementary school, I played jump rope with the other girls before class and during recess. A rhythmic symbiosis. When it was your turn to turn the ropes, you had to make sure you struck the ground right below the jumper's feet. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The sound became the pulse, and assurance for the jumper of the rope's lower bounds. Standing just outside the elliptical blender, you somehow would convince your body it was possible to enter, springing forward as a ball of scrunched limbs, to land in a huddled mass of hopping urgency, no longer singing the songs that accompany the ropes, but concentrating all your attention on the relationship of feet, ground, and that sharp spark of sound.

It meant something to me that you tried on my words to see if they conveyed your feelings. After all that's happened, I sometimes feel my relationship to the primacy of cells knowing things and delivering what they know to the poetic knowledge aquifers below the palace of words, is perhaps the only true relic I have of that other place I was living. That and the non-dualism. But to see you try on the words gave me a surge of energy, as I realized that how we love each other exists here too, in these attempts to write and read. And what a beautiful lineage these more formal attempts efforts belong to. A history of letters, e-mails, notes left on desks, promises scrawled in cards. 

I wrote for a year, but in hindsight I wasn't writing to you. I was writing to stabilize my mind which seemed to be reeling from the momentum of everything that was expanding in and around me. I wrote to map the terrain you and I would someday explore. The landscape that would become the catalyst for discoveries that we couldn't neatly parse into yours or mine.