The Textures of Other
Whatever your age when reading this, I’m asking you to remember.
It’s an experiment beggaring proof.
Find a comfortable position and setting – a favorite chair and drink, your all-time essential musical accompaniment, the woods, a mountain, a porch. Wherever it is, whatever the surround that most allows you to relax, let go, and drift.
Don’t think, exactly, just breathe and attend. Float or lie down. Allow your torso to lead. Feel your legs, your shoulders, the back of your head – sense them with your mind.
Once all of you feels reprieve, you’re under no specific pressures, these moments are free and they belong to you. You’re not dead yet, not needed anywhere, whatever pains you feel are truly part of your reality, NOW. Close your eyes, gently. Hear the air traveling into your nose, and quietly, slowly, exhale.
Be soft. Be silent. Be held. NOW. Notice a finger curled on a cup, an ankle or toe moving to or fro – give them a break, let them stop awhile. Be still. Allow your lungs, your heart, to keep time alive.
Good. Stay. Just be – you – sitting/lying/leaning/standing, wherever you are, hearing what you hear, touching where you touch, smelling, feeling your mouth with your tongue… rest.
Now drift: float over, stroll, swim, whatever is easiest for you, carefully, openly, gently back into your years. Begin here or with your earliest memories…anywhere…
What are they made of?
Colors? Sounds? Sights? Faces? Places? all of these? Examine on, calmly. Are they combinatory? An edge of a counter in a childhood kitchen, your mother’s back at sink or stove, a glinting sun through a window? The weight of your first tiny child in your lap, your forearms and fingers cradling its downy skull? The tumult of a raft on rapids, against boulders, rush and foam? The excited terror of walking the steps to preschool, or path to college dorm? Your grandfather pale in coffin?
Where do you go? What comes? Do you still hear earth-thudding booms of ammunition? Wails of the bleeding faces dying? A friend’s laughter, your own, good tears? Slaps of fists, warmth of hugs, wet of kisses?
How many bare arms caress your naked body? Whose? Can you smell their skin?
First mountain-view. First foreign city. First flown kite. First Christmas recalled. A sibling. A parent. A pet. Be there, each where and when, touch in.
Where are they? Can you hear voices? Whispers? In moments you were celebrated – does your chest still jitter? Play favorites. Go for good. Relive, as it were, whatever you consider joy.
What’s it like?
What are you viewing? What do you “feel”? What might it “mean”?
Stay relaxed if you can. Walk the empty morning pasture alone. Recall bonfires, ocean winds, swingsets, music. Dream revisitations.
I’d love to know what you’re finding, how you are. Take your time – these are yours.
Reach into the textures. The moments belong.
We get to.