(Pacquito shyly receiving his portrait commemorating his 17th birthday.
Photo has little to do with this letter, but needed to be included.)
The other night, I dreamt of claustrophobia.
It came to me not as a personification of itself, wearing a face as I might have preferred for the sake of intrigue and the possibility of conversation, but as a surge of sensation - a wave of movement dancing behind quavering eyelids, eyes widening past what waking allows. I dreamt of a catch in the breath, the failure to sip in that doubled sniff when clamoring for a particular scent, paused discontentedly after the first. I dreamt of an attempt to rise above drowning, even though there was no water atop which to sail or under which to slip, only a glass elevator the width of my self, traveling too many places and nowhere at once.
I had never truly felt claustrophobia before. Not until the MRI, two months after my shoulder tore, when I was slid inside the tube like a cry caught in the throat. Even then, it was mild—I never had to press the emergency squeeze brake they reassuringly tucked into my right hand. I told myself I’d be fine. After all, days before, I had survived, during a medicine journey, the constriction of ego death. If I could experience hours of inescapable dissolution, surely I could survive an optional ten minutes in a half-confined space.
Months later, Pacquito got sick and I thought I'd lose him. I realized how ill-prepared I actually was for death, in stark contrast to what I thought had become an all-encompassing welcoming of transition. The Five Remembrances of Buddhism helped, or they didn't. Same with chanting. Same with praying. Same with crying. Same difference.
It occurred to me that the Universe doesn’t mind that we think we only pray sometimes, because it knows that the way we commune shifts like tides reshaping themselves with the pull of the moon. When we are calm, our prayers flow constantly in quiet and perpetual conversation. When we are anguished, our prayers become more direct, louder, desperate for relief and begging for mercy.
I considered my new watch, intended primarily to count my steps and secondarily to remind me of "time." At certain angles, the analog face reveals all of its possibilities at once. Every hour, every number, layered together. A shimmer of potential, a contradiction. Everything and nothing at the same time.
I read somewhere that we invest in transient things because we don't want to sit with ourselves, can't bear to stay with our Selves.
Another prayer, scribbled on all of my many receipts: All that is invested is good and will return to itself seven times. But do I really need—or want—seven more of what I have? The thought alone feels stifling in its wastefulness. Less air, less room to breathe, to stretch.
And then, there is the the pressure of politeness. Toeing the line between tact and truth, and the cost, the burden of such a balancing act. The exhaustion of indecision, of confusion, and how that bleeds and weeps and seeps into everything - work, relationship, self. How much bending until I break? Both bamboo and willow branches have their limits.
Maybe these are all welcome-back signs. Reminders that I live here—upon, within, among all of these things. Pinched, unyielding space; suffocation; all the breaths we manage to draw in between. I live here, amidst it all, in the tension, in the push and pull, in the grinding friction of it all. They're all grist for the mill. As they always have been, and always will be.
I’ve missed writing. Every day, I miss it, and I don’t know exactly why or what it is, but I know that living unaligned and out of sync can hold one back, keep one trapped in a loop. Less air, less room to breathe, to stretch.
I think I feel greedy sometimes—greedy for more life, more things, longer moments, different paths. This kind of hunger comes with a heaviness. As though the very space I crave is being swallowed by the emptiness I fear.
But the gift of choice is still ours (for now). Six months away from writing here, a byproduct of increasing psychic and emotional claustrophobia. And now, for now—a rebirth, one hopes. Sometimes we rebirth ourselves. Sometimes we’re spat out, as though the powers that be know we've got at least a little bit more to do.
And in this space, I find room to breathe, even if just for a moment.
As always, with love and thanks,
BROOKIE
--
*The Five Remembrances
1. I am of the nature to grow old. There is no way to escape growing old.
2. I am of the nature to have ill health. There is no way to escape having ill health.
3. I am of the nature to die. There is no way to escape death.
4. All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. There is no way to escape being separated from them.
5. My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground upon which I stand.
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