Decembering
Celebrating the month of yearning. Actually, yearning is a feeling/state that I'm so accustomed to. It's the very tug pulling the words out of me for poetry, for connection, for capital D desire.
A moheb lives for the yearning. They know that connections happens in glimpses, in sparks. Connection is elusive, yearning, however, it's how we live our lives. Desiruous.
It's been a season of hibernation. Of yearning, if you haven't guessed yet. Sometimes the yearning comes with a flood of words, and at other times, it's just a dry season. The words are scarce, the flow, clogged with emotion that's bigger than any word or language to express. For a billingual, it's even worse because my knowledge of both languages has failed me.
I've been chasing poetry, so to speak. But here's something I wrote.
“Look, Sara, the moon.”
I looked up at the moon on our drive towards the Mediterranean. In retrospect, I realize my parents were young, stressed, overworked.
In that moment, very little me took this crumb of affection from my mother and held on for dear life.
My mother made me fall in love with the moon. Or maybe, I love the moon the way I wished I could love my mother.
The way I had wished she'd shown up for me. Predictable, consistent, cyclical.
My mother was abrupt, disruptive, erupting, like a volcano, and anything but predictable.
But she would always, always, always point at the moon on full moon nights and stars when the moon was new on our road trips.
And I would look up and sink into a dream state of being so in love with what the sky was playing for me at the time.