One of the drawers on my shelf is stuck. It's the weather, soaking the walls and causing the wood to expand, making it harder to open or close doors. Everything is stuck in doorways; neither here nor there.
Several friends asked me, “Who are these letters for? Who are you writing for?” Ever since I’ve found out that I’m capable of stringing words into sentences that make some home in hearts, I’ve written for a lot of reasons: to breathe, to tell stories and to make money. “Myself,” I told them, I’m writing it for myself, to remember and to exist.
I think I said that so these letters don’t become a burden around my ankles. A month is a small thing in retrospect. As soon as you turn the next page on the calendar, it blurs away in the river of time. It’s hard to sit down and wade your fingers through the current.
The middle of July marks the start of the Punjabi month ساون (Sawan/Saun)—monsoon. It rains on most days of the week, it’s humid and it’s sweaty. The last time I bathed in the rain in July, there was a two-inch layer of water flooding the entire house.
It takes more than it gives.
A lot happened in July, out in the world and in my world.
This month, I came across A Litany for Survival by Audre Lorde.
For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
To live and love within the doorways, like the wood in this weather, is continuously bumping on the edges and corners. It’s not being able to open for a month. It’s getting stuck on the knees, so someone can squeeze past. It’s bruising and brutal.
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
Lines tell stories without saying anything. The ones around your eyes frame your happiness, the ones on your hands outline your life, and the ones on your fingers speak about your hardships.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraidSo it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.
Audre Lorde said it’s better to speak, but no matter how strong my grip is on my words, they always slip between languages. I sleep with my tongue under my pillow.
Time is slipping away like sand from my fingers, and the lines on my hand fade the longer I stare at them—love, life, and heart all scratching each other to occupy a little space. Sometimes I wonder why my prayers aren't answered, and sometimes, I wish they weren't.
Everything is stuck in doorways, or maybe it’s just me.
this is beautiful