Before words, energy

Before words, energy. 

Many of my parts do not speak mind-language. They speak in pulses, timelessness, waves of emotion that I cannot even name. They feel energetic vacillations in the field like the wind from butterfly wings. I am not listening to your words (I am, I am listening), but I am listening to what it is that you are not saying, what it is that your body is saying, what it is that your being is vibrating out. Sometimes, you say “I reached out to him” and a silence hangs afterwards and your being is radiating out “please be proud of me”. Sometimes you say “I don’t know what I am feeling” and your being is radiating cosmic rage. I am in a conversation with your being, through the gossamer haze of words that allow us to pretend that we are not consciousness talking to itself. 

Sometimes you ask “What are you feeling?” and I cannot answer – come, sit beside me on this plane I am inhabiting, dangle your feet into the dark waters of the timeless ocean, look out with me at the expanding horizon, and you will know. 

Sometimes you stare blankly at me as I desperately pulse in your direction. Can’t you hear me, I am shouting at you, but not on the material plane, deeper, on some other frequency. I didn’t realize I had given up on ever being heard until someone heard me. 

We are blind, deaf, wandering with our arms outstretched, communicating through paper straws. Put down the straw, feel my vibrations. 

You know how to speak this language, you may have just forgotten. 

Sometimes, I stare in silence across the space to the other person, feeling their heart with mine. In this wordless space, my soul can uncurl, stretch out her arms, unfold her wings. Her face upturned to the cosmos.

Fiji

I felt like I should purchase something, so I purchased a fish bone necklace. My guide had said that whale bone was a symbol of forgiveness, and fish bone seemed close enough and a lot less morally problematic. As soon as I put it on I got a Bad Feeling, so I took it off and put it in my bag. It has since vanished. Ominous.

~

The man sitting opposite me said his name was Jason. He reached out a hand for me to shake. We shall do a ceremony, he declared, filling the bowl with water. He ground the kava into the water in silence. Hand, he asked. I held out my hand. No no, just clap. I clapped uncertainly. One, two, three he said. Then filled me a small bowl and nodded to me to drink. Should I … should I sip? Or drink it all? Drink it all! The guy behind him chuckled, all at once. He made cheery small talk with me - where are you going? Do you have family and friends there? How long for?

After I drank, Jason’s eyes went dead. He looked down at the floor, wordless, his part over. The other guy took over.

He took me to see the handmade items in the shop. What will you get your boyfriend? He said. What about this? I can carve his name in it. It’s too expensive for me, I said. I refused in different ways, several times. He realized I was serious. His smile disappeared, his eyes downcast. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. Yes, yes, goodbye, he said sullenly. 

~

The women, we make these necklaces, to earn money and feed the families. I waited until we were out of earshot of the other women. What do the men do? I asked hesitantly. Oh, she waved her hand, they farm, they’re doctors, nurses, fishermen.

Each woman described the same set of necklaces to me at different stands. This, this is real pearl. They said. These are hematite. Good for the blood stream. I murmured my approval, rubbed them in my hands appreciatively, and rested them back down, waiting to move on.

Before the Methodists came, my guide explained to me, we had no religion. Then they came and gave us a coat, and we still have the buttons from the coat. Every morning at 5am the drums sound and we get up to pray. Every evening when everyone comes home from work we pray. God is everywhere in our lives.

We found ourselves in a church. That is where the chief sits, she said in a hushed whisper. We sing, and it echoes. Yes, I can imagine - I gestured at the high ceilings. She started singing. Her voice was lilting, clear, angelic. A pure tone, untouched by doubt - how great is God, she sang. Eyes closed, I followed her voice with my own.

Afterwards, she turned to me. Will you … will you pray?

God, I thank you for this connection. For being here in your presence, in each other’s presence.

Our lord, she continued, bless Amanda and her family, her mother and father. Bless that she came to be here on this day. Hold her in your care as she travels today, take care of her. Thank you, thank you Lord. Her voice shook. Tears were in her eyes. Mine were welling up. All of a sudden I was two, three, four times bigger, an expanding spirit superimposed on my physical body. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I will keep praying for you, she said. The women will keep praying for you.

Then, in a hushed tone, have you given your life to the Lord? I guess I have, in my own way, I replied. I have to keep asking that, she says, and one day someone will ask me back. I wait upon God’s timing. We slowly stood up and wandered out, the ripples of our spiritual communion like waves in my system.

We reached the end of the tour. Vinaka (thank you), have a nice day!! She said cheerily, and waved me off. I was on my way, she was on to her next tour. A strange moment of communion in a strange relationship. 

~

The woman sat under a table covered in bananas. She yelled out to her son, playing carelessly to the side. Lines and lines of bananas, mangos, papayas. Some sat behind the tables, bored. Others chatted with each other. Who … who was buying these? I glanced around but I didn’t see anyone there buying anything. Just the listless sellers and endless bright rows of fruit.

~

I guess I should have lunch too? My tour guide pulled out his phone, awkward, playing some news video to avoid my gaze. I think he wasn’t used to one-on-one tours. I stared off into the distance, at the chopping waves and moored boats.

What was it like growing up for you here? I ventured.

What can I say? It was nice. Silence. He seemed to want to say more, but didn’t quite know how.

You know, in the villages we have chiefs. There’s a chief family. I took his offering eagerly. A family? Yes, in my village, the chief was my father’s older brother. It stays in the family.

Did you like him? Yes, he is a good chief. Back to silence.

He eventually left me to it. Give me your WhatsApp, he said, and I will pick you back up when you are ready. 

I lay down on the deck chair, planning to journal and process. Instead I passed out. The sun moved through the sky and the heat stretched out over my body. I awoke groggily, uneasy. What was I doing here, in this heat and white sand and choppy pale blue ocean? In this place where everyone smiled and said Bula! and the cars were dusty and run down?

Vinaka! They beamed at me as I left. A child sitting on a wall followed me out with his eyes.

~

The lookout was breathtaking. Imagining them arriving here thousands of years ago, in canoes from Africa, overcome with awe at discovering a paradise. Imagining them hacking pathways through the thick, lush forest to climb the hills, to survey the land that will become their home. First things first, I imagine them saying, we need to find food. Discovering the juicy breadfruits and papayas. An oasis of greenery compared to their homeland. Everywhere the eye touches is a deep, alive green or a smudged blue.

They used to eat humans, my guide had said to me. Other invading tribes. They would hit them with this neck breaker, then eat them with this cannibal fork (she wielded the items with a toothy glee).

I imagined them running through the thick greenery, against the burning sun and halcyon blue backdrop, calling out cries of the hunter and the hunted. 

The thick, bright forest rose through my throat and up into the sky, a soaring joy.

Unease

I trade in unease. The feeling of in between moments, when the air hangs and the sentence is half finished. A fly buzzes. An ant crawls over my leg. Heat waves ripple up from the bone white sand.

These are my precious stones, that I shine and polish and rub until the edges are smooth. These are the moments where all else is suspended and for a breathspan, we break through – the mannequins in the puppet show freeze on their strings. The sound of your heartbeat in your ears. The delicious absurdity of this game we play comes out in a throaty chuckle into the silence. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is meant to. What, the fuck, are we doing here? A cat mews.

The Many Lives of Amanda

The gatherer

I wake up. The sun is filtering through the leaves, overlaying on my cheeks. The birds have been singing for hours. I breathe in and smell the pine freshness of the air. I roll over gently, savoring the moment and the slow, morning warmth.

The builder

My mind races ahead to the many worlds unfurling in front of me. It places pieces, moves them around, tries out patterns and watches the cascading effects. Faster, we are always moving faster. Tumbling, controlled, catching each other, our legs running over rocks in rhythm. Everything blurs in the background of the one pathway we are running over at breakneck speed.

The writer

The ocean crashes gently as I cradle my coffee. Thoughts swirl in my mind, forming and unforming, machines constructed and run in subconscious seconds. Chewing, my mind pours over the granules of an idea, looking for footholds. Worlds pour out of my fingers for others to inhabit, filled with wonder.

The wanderer

The grass is damp under my bare feet. I scan for trees to tie my hammock between. The sun is beginning to set, and their laughter is loud as they set up a campfire. Someone begins strumming a guitar. A quiet, low voice weaves amongst the trees. Tomorrow, I will see new faces around new fires. Today, the light dances over their eyes, uncovering, fleetingly, all the worlds they have seen.

The movement builder

People brush past me, purposeful, voices calling out across streets. I clap my hands in delight. “Where should this one go?” someone pants at me, the corner of a heavy table supported by their stooping shoulder. “Over there!” I cry. “What should I do with the pamphlets that just arrived?” someone runs to ask. “Ah, perfect, leave them here,” I say gratefully. Colorful flags raise up on every corner. Something is beginning. 

The healer

I hold her eyes, softly, gently, a pillow of love for her to unwind into. The lines around her eyes and mouth begin to fade, her breath deepens. Remember how deeply you are loved, my gaze tells her.

The traveler

I sip coffee, staring out at the river and the streams of people passing by. My backpack sits at my feet, journal open in front of me. Soles weary from many footsteps, I listen to the chatter and wonder at the lives of each passing person – the woman with designer sunglasses and a purposeful stride; the man in jeans with a waddling dog. The keys for my hostel room press against my leg.