Letting the Savage Grass Grow

Do not be afraid of your own heart beating

Late winter has brought, as usual, an abundance of clouds. The light hides behind a thick fog, shadows and reflections come few and far between — it’s hard to see a life in front of me. I found myself aching to step out of my body for a while, like a plane that rises beyond the limits of a rainy city and into a sea of sunlight. I’ve been swimming in the deep end for too long that I can’t remember what it feels like to hang on the edge, heat on my shoulders, staring down at my wavering reflection.

In high school, I went on a summer rafting trip in Salmon, Idaho. We were completely isolated — our phones were stored in a locker until we returned, and the only tools we had for recording our experiences were journals and disposable film cameras. Perhaps the most jarring thing was the complete removal from our reflections. I spent five or six days without looking in a mirror. When I finally did, in a grubby rest stop bathroom, I barely recognised myself. I remember being so aware of my body. By the end of my time on the river, I forgot I even had one. It was as if I had blended into the world.

“To See It” by Laura Foley

We need to separate to see 
the life we've made. 
We need to leave our house
where someone waits for us, patiently, 
warm beneath the sheets. 
We need to don a sweater, a coat, mittens, 
wrap a scarf around our neck, 
stride down the road, 
a cold winter morning, 
and turn our head back, 
to see it -- perched
 on the top of the hill, our life
lit from inside. 

by Janice Biala

Two weeks ago, I marked two dates on the “March” page of our calendar in the kitchen. One was a spontaneous trip to Geneva for a few days to see my aunt, her daughter, and their cat, Léo. Also, the mountains, and the lake. The second was my departure back to the U.S., a ten-day trip to celebrate Persian New Year with my family. Also, my best friend, and the tree-lined backroads. I would be lying if I said these weren’t said attempts at exiting my body — or maybe, returning to it. I want to see the mark I leave from above, the shape of myself on the earth.

As Mary Oliver wrote in “Dogfish”:

I wanted the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,

whoever I was, I was

alive
for a little while.

Last winter, when I was home for Christmas break, it snowed heavily a few days before I left. I dragged my feet through our backyard to shape my footprints into a heart. My mom, who stayed inside to work in our breakfast nook, could look out the window and see what I had left behind. The snow melted, but the heart stayed — my dad sent me a photo of it a week later, patched with grass, the shape still intact. I am lucky to be loved by so many, every day, but sometimes it is nice to be received: at an airport arrivals gate, or a bus stop in a foreign city.

I arrived in Geneva late on a Wednesday evening. The mountains hid behind the clouds for the rest of the week, but I ventured outside on Friday morning to get a pain au chocolat and have it by the lake. It was cold and I was underdressed, but I hung my legs off of the concrete ledge and looked out onto the open sea, quilted by silence. No one was around. I took my headphones off and listened to the wind. I was knocked out of my trance by a splashing: several waves had collided oddly in the middle of the water. Each of their paths and patterns had led them to one spot, where they fused and disappeared into strong ripples, moving further and further out until they settled. I watched — this observation pulled me back into reality. The sound reminded me I was alive. The day had been dreary, but the sun broke through the clouds for a moment, and light danced across the surface of the water. Life can feel so still, but there is always movement. Sometimes we look for the light to remind us so, but the truth is it was moving before it was illuminated. Ups and downs, little collisions everywhere, rippling out into the wide stretch of our lives. I sat there for an hour and a half. I have so much patience in my body, but I am often so hesitant to use it.

Linda Gregg writes in “Marfa”:

I keep thinking that if I go 
alone into the size of this silence, we can 
straighten things out. To know what to question, 
and what to believe. How to let my heart 
split open. To print in clear light 
the changing register of this grand world. 

On the first day of March, I decided to go on a cold social media detox for three weeks, until the Spring Equinox. I was feeling so deeply disconnected — from myself, the world, and the second plane of existence that hovers above me at all times (from which I often pull my writing). Ada Limón wrote: “..it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let / the savage grass grow.” If my raw thoughts and feelings were the savage grass, each hour of mindless scrolling was a long stride with a lawnmower. Eventually, it gave out. I grew tired. The only way I could let go was to let go completely. I sat on the front porch of my life, every morning, and watched the grass grow taller.

Social media has given me many things — cherished friendships, creative stimulation, a place to share my work and read that of others. It takes a lot of awareness and patience to focus on the positives. Pretending that I have the answers is doing me more harm than good. I search for myself in the blue light, and it bleeds right through me. I felt like a floating shell of a human. I needed time away, to step not out of my life but into it, so that I could feel the weight of myself again.

Bernadette Mayer’s “The Way to Keep Going in Antarctica”:

Be strong Bernadette
Nobody will ever know
I came here for a reason
Perhaps there is a life here
Of not being afraid of your own heart beating
Do not be afraid of your own heart beating
Look at very small things with your eyes
& stay warm
Nothing outside can cure you but everything's outside
There is great shame for the world in knowing
You may have gone this far
Perhaps this is why you love the presence of other people so much
Perhaps this is why you wait so impatiently
You have nothing more to teach
Until there is no more panic at the knowledge of your own real existence
& then only special childish laughter to be shown
& no more lies no more
Not to find you no
More coming back & more returning
Southern journey
Small things & not my own debris
Something to fight against
& we are all very fluent about ourselves
Our own ideas of food, a Wild sauce
There's not much point in its being over: but we do not speak them:
I had written: "the man who sewed his soles back on his feet"
And then I panicked most at the sound of what the wind could do
               to me
       if I crawled back to the house, two feet give no position, if
       the branches cracked over my head & their threatening me, if I
       covered my face with beer & sweated till you returned
If I suffered what else could I do

Bernadette Mayer passed away in November, but this was the first time I had read any of her work. It struck me deeply. Do not be afraid of your own heart beating. I am actively trying to render my life into something tangible. Mayer’s poem is an honoring of isolation, of the solitude that is often necessary for healing, and a learned respect for quotidian life. Like “the man who sewed his soles back on his feet”, someone who chose to feel the earth beneath him again, and did the work. Most crosswalks in London have tactile paving for accessibility, and these bumps allow the blind to know where to stop and wait. Usually, I flip my head to either side, searching for a gap in the cars that would allow me to cross the street as quickly as possible. But recently, I’ve taken a moment to rock bath and forth in my shoes, feeling the pattern of the ground below me. If I’m not chasing a train or a bus, I wait for the pedestrian light to appear, and then I walk forward. There’s a metaphor somewhere in there.

I’ve been going to a pottery studio every week for a few months now. After constant digital interaction, it’s become a grounding practice. It reminds me I have a body, which is tied to so many things. I take clay from the earth and mold it with my hands. These thoughts reminded me of this piece by the poet Ada Limón, in which she talks about reconciling with our bodies post-quarantine, and she writes: I will need to do more work to be at ease in the real world again.

On Saturday evening I took a wheel-throwing class by myself, and I was one of seven attendees, the others comprised two couples and a father-daughter duo. Entering the studio and noticing this detail wasn’t as jarring as it would’ve been two weeks ago, perhaps because I’d been spending so much time facing myself. I keep repeating that quote by Ocean Vuong: Loneliness is still time spent with the world. The most challenging part of the throwing practice is the centring, which takes control and patience. The instructor kept reminding me that I’m in charge, which for some reason I didn’t believe until I stuck my elbow into my hip and, somehow, rendered a ball of clay into a bowl. A jumble of earth into something useful. Immediately I wanted to do it again, and again, and again. The clay stuck to my shoes and I carried it all the way home.

Two days into my trip to Geneva, I came down with a really bad cold. I imagine it was that day I spent by the lake, but also perhaps stepping out of my life so drastically put my body into shock. This social media detox has been difficult. I miss my friends, and I have spent more time staring at the ceiling and looking at emails from 2011 than doing anything of intellectual value. But I do know that I have been noticing things more: today the box at the fruit stand looked like a face with an open mouth, and the stars appeared on my walk home. I am more of a believer, in the good and the sacred. When I do see my friends, I listen intently, pocket their words and reflect on the way home. Part of me finds life better this way, but I know that’s not the answer. Moderation takes effort and endurance. Nothing outside can cure you but everything's outside. I have been facing the mountains for so long, and the fog is starting to move away. The waves are whispering, and I am trying to be patient. Be strong Bernadette. A textured landscape is nicer, anyway.

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April is National Poetry Month in the United States. To celebrate, I’ll be sending out a daily poem each day throughout the month. You can opt-in here, and please share with family and friends :-)

This was a long one — thank you so much for reading.

<3

Tara