afreen, آفرین

she sat in that wicker chair, with a pot of tea in front of her and a mug next to it, both white. Like everything else around her, the walls of the villa, the clouds floating across the pristine blue sky, the tall lamp shade hanging from the ceiling, reaching all the way to the floor  - all white. Exactly like the noise inside her - silent noise bouncing off the corners of her inner being, echoing in that emptiness - and the color, white.  Deep breaths, one breath, two breaths, three, four - with five, she brings herself back in, and pushes her uneasiness out a little by little bit.


the house is silent, her friends asleep in this nascent-ish time, just after dawn, the birds flit back and forth from a large tree to her right, are they bats she wonders - no too small to be bats. The dawn seemed to have awakened her and them this Bali morning, bringing them both out of stupor, they adjusting to light with enthusiasm, while she, unwilling, still unwilling to let go. Everything around her trying to teach her to live a little easy, a little free, and a little with love for herself - nothing stopping her from learning these lessons, except her mulish self.

mine to have and mine to hold, she repeats to herself for what might be the millionth time since her decision to move on. She will leave it behind, but on her own terms - at her own peace. Not for her, this flakiness, she knows passion, all-consuming passion. Passion that sustains you and then eats you alive if you weren't careful - restraining this demon was never her strong point, she usually lets it have a free rein, but this time she couldn't. As much as she wanted to do what came naturally to her, follow her instincts, they always ended up making a mess of her. She stares up at the huge round lamp shade hanging next to a fragrant frangipani tree, right above the table she is sat - the lamp that gives the villa it's name : new moon. Flowers, white and pink. One flower, two flowers, three flowers, four, five - innumerable flowers bunched up together, making the tree smile - making her smile.

bali, holding her now. Bali, assisting her to let go of that grip she has on her dreams, the grip she tries to grab life with - one finger opens, two fingers, three, four - until her palm lies open on the table.

with her palm facing up, she closes her eyes - a silent breeze only turning musical when it touches the sugarcane plants : billowing fields, dancing as though tafetta skirts rustle over a dance floor right out of a page from Gone with the wind. With her eyes closed, she imagines the shades of green in front of her - made even brighter from last night's rain, there's a chill around her - but then she was always one to feel cold even when others were ok - today, here right now, she was feeling a chill all along her spine in balmy bali : she wraps her stole tightly around her shoulders, knowing that broken pieces rest inside and trying not to break them again.

it's Sunday - the balinese all over the island prepare for Nyepi, silent day and for the new year - the sound of gamelan fills the silence hitherto broken only by the swaying fields. Her mind travels to a balinese temple and she pictures a painting she had made last year. The ever-spiritual and ever-praying balinese assembling before a temple, with offerings in the hands, or on their heads. An ancient temple standing in between a forest, surrounded by large banyans, galungans dominating the space above the temple entrances.

"good morning" , her friend says gently touching her shoulder - she feels as though someone has yanked her back to reality- her head still reeling from the effect. She takes a minute to calm down, and then turns back, smiles at him, greeting him back. Using her palms, she pushes her chair back, gets up to go to the kitchen to get him a mug as well and also bring some milk and sugar for the tea. She makes them tea - one teaspoon sugar each and a spot of milk in both mugs - perfect. Her land and her elixir. The liquid coursing through her, sewing her up, gold thread on needle, piercing through her, one stitch, two stitches, three stitches, four, five - until she is whole, again. Kintsugi, the japanese art of fixing broken pottery with gold dust. No more breaking now, she tells herself, no more breaking ever.

it begins to rain again. Her friend picks up his mug, the pot of tea and rushes in, comes back for the milk jug and sugar and her. But she stays there unmoving, he asks her to come in, as he carries her mug inside. She stays there for a breath longer and then rises up to go inside. She reaches the lounge area and stops and turns watching the rain fall on the frangipani tree - one drop, two drops, three drop, four, five, then a torrent.

something is amiss.

'this isn't me, not for me this cautious living, not for me a set path to follow, not for me perfect beauty - i'll break again - that's the only way i feel alive'. With that she steps out barefoot into the rain, spreads her arms and looks up inviting life, knowing bali holds her as life drenches her. One last rain drop, one last flower, one last gold threaded stitch and she keeps him alive - mine to have and mine to hold, she says one more time and begins to dance like a peacock that has been waiting for the rains all this while and has finally found expansive freedom, a heart that's finally free of what it should do, allowing itself to do what it must. She'll do this for herself, one more try at life, at love, a little more faith in him, in them.

and with that she continues to dance : one step, two steps, three steps, four, five - mine to have, mine to hold.