The Grand Quilt of Being Here

Reaching equilibrium

Last night, I walked to the local market and bought produce to make a curry. I made a big batch with a recipe a good friend gave me four years ago, and I ate it with rice on my couch in my pajamas. After dinner, I opened a small box of rose Turkish delight. I can’t remember the last time I had Turkish delight, but I do remember trying it for the first time: I was in first or second grade, and we had just finished reading the first book of The Chronicles of Narnia series. A parent brought it in so we could all try. Powdered sugar got all over our hands and faces, and I don’t think we were particularly impressed. It’s blurry, but this memory brought me to an understanding. To my teenage self, this would be a disappointing way to spend a Saturday night. But that’s not who I live to impress. My 7-year-old self spent her recess in the library. She’d be delighted that I have a little one that’s all mine, that I read from it in the evenings. And eat sweets whenever I want to. More importantly: that’s what present-me is happy doing. There is no parallel longing.

“What I Want and What I Can Have” by Jeanie Greensfelder:

After dinner, I try to digest
kale and cauliflower in my longing
to live longer, and a root-beer float
in case my world ends tomorrow.
 
I play the gamble game with exercise
and diet, reminded daily by obituaries
featuring people younger than me:
the impossible becoming likely.
 
I want to go out full, embraced by my life,
the grand quilt of being here. Yet memories
are remnants, and come one patch at a time.
And like moments, most fade unnoticed.
 
After a storm, I take a walk.
At the jasmine vine by my front door,
a raindrop, suspended on a stem, stops me.
What I want, what I can have, merge.

I think the body is most grounded in childhood. I wasn’t happy and satisfied all the time, but I was never anxious about the future or nostalgic for the past. I never worried about the way people perceived me. I skipped in malls and carried around stuffed animals, and even when kids in my class teased me, the insults sat on the surface and floated away. But things always sink a little deeper the more you learn about the world, about all its possibilities. All the should be’s and could be’s echo louder. I spent most of my adolescence with my head in the clouds, floating towards the future. I can only remember a handful of times when I truly felt grounded in high school, when I wasn’t busy sticking photos on my mental dream board. I paraded around as my ideal self because I never let myself get to know any other version.

by Yoshitomo Nara

When I first got to university, I longingly expected so much — a big group of friends, nights out on the town, internships. Things didn’t turn out that way, for one reason or another. It felt like the photos on that dream board were slowly withering away, and I kept replacing them with the same thing. I wanted things that weren’t coming to me, and I fought against the things that did. I spent more time fighting fate than exploring what it had given me. I don’t blame myself for it. As Ada Limòn wrote: “…it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.”

The pandemic forced me to stop. I left that dream board at university because I didn’t have space in my suitcase to take it home. It took a while, but the things I needed came to me, and I accepted them, mostly because there was nothing to fight for. I’m glad I did, though. I made deep friendships — with people who didn’t know each other, but I learned how rewarding those individual relationships can be. I stayed at home and got closer with my family. I couldn’t get an internship so I read poetry instead. I returned to London in September with open arms. I relabeled my dream board. There are still pictures on it, but this time, I’ve taken them.

I graduate in June, and I know I should be looking ahead. Sometimes I break and the anxiety hits me. But then I get coffee with a friend, or read on my couch, or go on a walk, and I don’t feel a need to look ahead. The things that make me happy are within my reach. What I want, what I can have, merge.

Schuyler Peck wrote in Can’t Get Enough of My Love:

Saturday morning comes
and I am lucky to know me.
 
I wasn’t born knowing how to love me,
but I’m learning now;
catching up for lost time between us.
I keep the windows open.
I play oldies throughout every corner
of my apartment.
I tell the dog how good it feels,
at least for today,
at least for right now,
to be alive.

Further Reading

“The Letter” by Linda Gregg

This October 7, 1963 Peanuts comic

Poppies by Mary Oliver

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What I Enjoyed This Week

Recent Reads

• This wholesome article about the creation of Wordle, combined with this excerpt from Sarah Ruhl. “I loved you to the point of invention”.

• This good news — a Redwood forest in California has been returned to its native tribes. "Our ancestors are still here, they're still around us. As I listen to the wind, I feel like my ancestors -- who I've never even known in my lifetime -- are here and happy that we call this place something that they're familiar with: Tc'ih-Léh-Dûñ." I hope that this is only the beginning.

• “Reading Farrokhzad in a Pandemic” by Kaveh Akbar. This is still so poignant. I really love Akbar’s poetry because it makes me feel represented — I speak Farsi but I can’t read it. I know that limits me to so much, but his work gets to my core and makes me feel validated. This one is especially striking. Get behind me, English.

Other Wonderful Things

• Wordle! I have jumped on the train. Can’t lie, I look forward to it every morning.

• I finished my finals this week and I finally have time to read again! I have been enjoying making a cup of tea and listening to jazz on my couch as I curl up with a book. My favorite playlists have been this one and this one, which are meant to cook with — I’ve been using them for that too, but they just linger all evening.

• This song, and this song, and this song.

Thank you for reading! Have a good week.

<3

Tara