Over my outdated corded landline, my dear friend, Berta read me a poem she translated from German. We are keeping distant as she’s 96 and can suffer from weakness in her lungs. I can’t recall the exact words but it was a series of reminders repeated over and over. They were paradoxes. Never forget our uniqueness AND what we share; our isolation AND our connection.
Some shed surface, some knot that is untangled, some thought we can dismiss, a way of looking that distorts the world we can relinquish and let a liquid washing through of light leave us ready to turn the corner look at the unknown as though it were a friend of ours wearing a fresh hat, imperfect as yesterday, offering us tea and the wise choice we couldn’t make before.
Sometimes everything seems to stop. To grow cold, to come off the boil, to go flat—we have lots of ways to describe it. The enthusiasm we had for life, for our work, for a project, a relationship dissipates, and something else calls.
Trust speaks a foreign language I have yet to train my tongue to shape, my ear to comprehend. I’ve rejected trust as alien even when she longs for refuge in those pockets of my soul where I’ve long harboured fear