Mystics Get Born Out of Prison – Love in the Time of Corona
Mystics Get Born Out of Prison, from the “Love in the Time of Corona” a Corona Diaries series of Morning Pages entries.
This morning I have nothing to write. The world is still ending.
I’ve been optimistic and then I’m not. I don’t want to work, I want to slow down with the trees. I’m in a relationship. I feel trapped. I’m so used to myself and my connection with the earth. I’m not sure how to fit him in. I wonder if this whole stopping of the world is amplifying what needs to be fixed and the pain we’ve been avoiding. We couldn’t keep consuming the way we’ve been. We need our planet more than new clothes and plastic. Our truth doesn’t come from zooming around, it comes from sitting, from resting.
But it’s not always glorious and refreshing when we rest. It can be painful. Old things we’ve shoved away start creeping out – so old that we can’t recognize their faces anymore. I have old things that have turned into new things. My mind likes to dance with ghosts.
I don’t think now is the time for answers necessarily.
I even know in my own work I don’t want to suddenly shove out some new online program. I can’t have the seeds of my work be desperation. I don’t want to gloss over anything or pretend.
I feel childish. I feel sad. I feel ok.
One moment I want to dance and twirl and I know that no matter what happens, there’s a wild spirit in me who’s free, the next moment I want to run away and punch walls. At the supermarket yesterday, in front of the fish lady, as she was wrapping up some snapper, tears started rolling down my face. It took over my chest like these exploding bubbles and water pushed out of my eyes. I couldn’t hold it back. This is not the time to pretend. I’m grateful no one asks why because grief can’t answer to why.
The only answer to grief Is because and grief isn’t contained in one thing, it’s contained in everything. This is why I love music because I can play sad notes that bleed into joy and they can die in climaxes and get reborn in friction and silence. I miss the piano. When I first knew I’d be in a lockdown..what the fuck is a lockdown…I promised myself a piano. I knew I’d be okay if I have music. We all need music, we all need to sing. But we are stripped of so many things and it doesn’t help yearning for what can’t appear. Last night I dreamed I left Australia but then suddenly I was stopped. For so many of us we are confronting our fear of being trapped.
Mystics get born out of prison and we have new prisons and old prisons wrapped around us.
I make the mistake and slip back into my mind and stomp my feet and think, “I want this to stop, this isn’t fair.” I watch all of us confused, some of us wearing masks in our own homes. Now in public people won’t even give eye contact. We can’t keep separating ourselves from one another, we can’t fear one another more. The only thing we have is one another. The light in our eyes, that’s how we sing “hello,” that’s how we recognize the truth of ourselves, our own infinity. Let’s not shut that out.
Maybe it’s not so dramatic where you are. I have friends in Japan skiing and loving that the slopes are more empty. I have other friends trapped in apartments and scared to order carry-out. This is like taking a drug and our deepest fears are rising and we don’t know when it will wear off. This is the time when our practice is essential.
I miss the piano, I miss notes so much. I don’t want to listen to music so much, I want quiet. I admit I get aggravated by so many noises. The past couple days- yes, I’m just aggravated. I want to punch something, maybe later I will punch the waves. I’m forced to be friends with the cold and I don’t like the cold. I want to whine and I know this doesn’t help. Underneath this all I’m sad and worried and underneath that I’m surrendered..and even curious.
So my piano is this keyboard and instead of sounds I have letters and I don’t want to be captured by anything linear.
The freedom I discovered when I was 18 was how infinite I am, how beyond my rational mind I am, my own inter-dimensional nature. I can’t be trapped by that. And I know limits breed creativity so can I find new words, can I write my way through this, can the tenderness of my heart be held by my fingers flying.
Can I commit to writing even while things are frozen, things are masked, things are avoided, things are dying. Can I commit to writing even though I’m new at relationships and I know my partner would rather us make love and it’s hard for me to make love to someone else when I forget how to make love to myself.
Can I make love right now, I think that’s our greatest weapon and protection, can I make love right now in this confusion and find my own way to sing. Our only way through this I believe is for all of us to sing.