The strength of the Lion

My EMDR¹ therapist sets the scene in a dark room, with a large white screen on one of the walls.

– « Close your eyes », she says.
I hear a first drop of water in my left ear. Right ear. Left. Splash. Splash. Like a faucet not completely turned off, would sound. One tear at the time.
I imagine an old movie theater where the projector in my back, is the only light. I’m the only audience member and, I can project whatever story I want to see. My therapist would like me to start with the image of an animal.

– « A lion », I say. This is the second time I think of a lion in our exercises. The lion represents strength, wisdom, calm and safety. 
– « Get closer. Look at the details of that lion. »
A lion is walking towards me in the light of the early morning. I’m back to Africa. The lion is calm. Nothing can bother him. He doesn’t feel unsafe, he is a lion. Old, but not too old. Wise.

– « You are that lion »
– « I am that lion. I’m strong and confident. He is hairy, I don’t want to be hairy. I feel safe. No fears. Life is simple. »
By essence, life is neutral but our perception can make us feel miserable. I carry both of these perceptions within me. Sometimes one is more powerful than the other. When I feel overwhelmed, I lose the big picture. Life is painful and I just want to die. I cannot handle that pain. Other times, I’m calmer, I distance myself from my environment. I’m able to observe and see things in a different light. Things as they are, not as they look like. The big picture. We often lose the big picture when we are caught in the drama of the ego mind.

– « Imagine you are being put in a cage. »
It is a small cage. I can’t really explore. I can only lay down and look at Africa through the metal bars. I’m not angry. It would be counterproductive to bite the cage. I worry they will take me away from the place I love. But at the present moment, there is nothing I can do. Only wait and observe. I need to understand. Understand helps me to calm down, make sense and accept.
If I was the cage?
My purpose is to trap things, people or anything so, I trap. Nothing personal against the lion. It is in my nature to trap so, I trap. Most people react. The lion could bite me and go crazy but he chooses not to. The lion is looking at the horizon line, accepting his fate. I feel the pain of the lion. I soften the metal bars and, the cage melts.
– « I feel what you feel and, I let you go ». The lion gets up and leaves the cage.
Most of the communication is not using language. In a conversation, I listen to what the person says. I read in between the lines. I hear what is not said. My body reads the body language of my interlocutor and, I feel their energy. At the end, most of what I learned was not expressed by words.

– « How was it to be in the cage? » is asking my therapist.
– « Be in the cage was oppressing. I was suffocating, I couldn’t breathe. »
I often need space. Oppressing. But, was it really? I could see the vast plains of Africa through the metal bars of the cage. Was I a lion in Africa or, was I in the obscurity of the movie theater, projecting a cartoon of my imagination?
A lion was reminded how precious his freedom is, when he lost it. He had taken it for granted. Maybe I tasted how it is like to be free. A cage which nature is to trap realized that she has the choice to do otherwise. Maybe I learnt to melt the metal bars of my mental cage.
Our reality is limited by how we conceptualize our idea of the world. Thoughts that we interiorized, making them real. The Inuits have 52 words to refer to snow and ice. I feel more emotions, that I know words to express them. How would the world be, if I could name them all? Perhaps, as rich as my inner world.

I’m in bed and I can’t sleep. Midnight thinking. Imaginary conversation. I told my therapist we met in Africa.  We are no longer that eclectic couple: a French girl and an Israeli guy, living in Cyprus. No one is asking me anymore how we have met. That story is no longer told. People don’t realize how much is gone. I miss the conversations we will never have. This is lost too.

It was a good session: I figured out what was underneath the guilt, what was that resentment about. An absence of freedom, a restricted space to express myself and, just be me.
And, I returned to Africa. I told our story. That’s a good story.

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[1] Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy works well in case of trauma, PTSD or negative inner beliefs. Both sides of the brain are stimulated alternatively. This therapy started with eye movement in the late 80s. Now, on zoom, my therapist is using sound (a beep alternately in the left and right ear). Some therapist make you recall the trauma and work with the emotions that come up. My therapist recalls my emotions by setting an imaginary scene and makes me use my imagination to resolve the trauma.

My chronic grief

Your birthday in January, our anniversary in February and, your death in March. Every year feels different.

28.01.1976 – Last year around your birth date, I was reading «Laughable loves» by Milan Kundera, 1968. He was Czech, like my paternal grand-father. It is a collection of short absurd love stories. I was thinking I could write an additional one:  A widow baking a birthday cake for her husband. I had baked a chocolate cake.
Chocolate birthday cake again, this year. Not that Nati liked chocolate cakes particularly more than any others cakes. Once, he baked chocolate cupcakes for his birthday. He was in Israel; I was then on La Reunion’s island. I remember his proud smile when he showed me his baking tray on Skype.

Late afternoon grocery shopping, prior his birthday. It is already dark outside. It doesn’t really rain. Blanched whole almonds for the praline, almond paste for the almonds cream, oat drink for the chocolate ganache. As I walk back from the shop, I pass a man coming the other way, on the sidewalk. He wears Nati’s perfume. I smile and I tear up at the same time. I’m standing in the drizzle. Tears of joy or tears of sadness? I can’t really tell. Maybe both.

Baking at dawn. It is still peach dark and quiet. I prepared the dough and the chocolate ganache last night. After cooking the tart shells, I roast the almonds in the oven. Six years ago, my guilt was consuming me. I was not with you for your 40th birthday. I pour the boiling syrup on the warm almonds, stir, caramelize on medium heat and throw the caramelized almonds on a baking-paper to cool down. Guilt is arrogance in disguise. What kind of super power did I think I had, to know that it was going to be your last birthday? Mixer. Praline is done.
I wanted to surprise you with a hot air balloon tour above the Loire Valley, for your 40th birthday. A slow elevation in the silence of the early morning. Only the breath of the burners warming up the cold air in the balloon and, the dogs barking below. Almond cream. I pour the boiling syrup on the cacao butter, praline and almond paste. The consistency looks right. The chocolate ganache, on the other hand, is too liquid. I suspect the Mexican witch to be in my French kitchen again. But you were not turning 39 as I thought. Mistakes are unforgivable in the face of death. There is no second chance.

Chocolate tart montage. A thin layer of praline on the tart shell. A thicker layer of chocolate ganache and, a spiral of almond cream. The spiral is sinking into the chocolate ganache making the chocolate overflowing the shell. But I developed some camouflage skills. A rose petal to cover up. If you don’t mind, I will give one of the chocolate tarts to my hairdresser. She has a sweet tooth too.

As I’m writing these words seating at the table of my French kitchen, my Ipod is randomly picking «Stay with me» by Sam Smith. That song takes me back to our Cypriot kitchen. I was singing out loud and off key, while you were making diner. «Darling stay with me, ’cause you are all I need…» You paused and looked at me, as if I had guessed and, was genuinely begging you to stay with me.    

*****

19.02.2011 – Nati was the romantic one. He wanted to get married on Valentine’s Day but, there was no Saturday 14th of February in 2011. So, we got married on Saturday 19th of February 2011.
I didn’t know if Nati was the right one when I married him. I only knew he was special and, I would regret not to. I married him and, I loved him more as I was discovering his flaws. Maybe, this is what I like the most about him. His flaws and his little obsessions.

Credit: Melanie Zontone

Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong singing « They Can’t Take That Away From Me »

There are many many crazy things
That will keep me loving you
And with your permission
May I list a few
The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No, no they can’t take that away from me
The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No, no they can’t take that away from me
We may never never meet again, on the bumpy road to love
Still I’ll always, always keep the memory of
The way you hold your knife
The way we danced until three
The way you changed my life
No, no they can’t take that away from me
No, they can’t take that away from me

Love lies in little things.
The way you played with my fingers,
The way you kissed my nose…
Nati was the right one for me.

Sometimes, he comes in my dreams. He once said «If you have any idea how many times, I have been trying to tell you that I love you.» His visitations come with a sensation, his love from afar. Something powerful that erases everything else. Doubts, fears and pains melt like ice cream under the Mexican sun.

*****

10.03.2016 – Nati died six years ago. I feel sad that I’m not desperate anymore.
Long after he died, I was still feeling his pain. Everything was tinted in grey, as if his final act had redefined who he was. I couldn’t rewind the film roll, back to his genuine smile. I was stuck in his rainy days.
Grieving is not a healing process but, a transformation. Like for an onion, I peel off the layers and I cry. Who I was in his eyes, died with him. Our private jokes are lost. The future we imagined, vanished. I’m the only safe left, for our memories. I peel the dead skin off so I become.
Along the process, some grew up with me. Others are still holding on, to my old skin, expecting me to return to my old self. They say, «Move on». But I don’t fit anymore. I’m moving forward, leaving them behind. Another loss.

St Martin en Ré, 2012

Nati is dead but he is not. His soul continues to live within mine. In the tangible world, it feels like we have grown apart. He became a memory, an old yellowing and dog-eared photograph, frozen in time.
In the other world, I see us closer. The walls fall and I see him. I see beyond the false beliefs caused by our wounds. Maybe he does too. He said, «I was blind, now I see». There is expansion once we heal our swollen wounds. There is room for something other than fear or pain. A purple light filled with endless possibilities, the tranquil force of an emerging lion, the serenity of my salty skin a la playa de San Agustillo ¹, the unconditional love of a white dog with blueberry dots, a new language to express what was never said.

I see him in who I have become. Maybe I left the valley of my despair.

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[1] at San Agustillo beach, in Spanish

Prologue

Morning run:
Sometimes I feel your presence,
Sometimes I feel your absence,
Sometimes I feel nothing.
I don’t know what hurts the most.

San Miguel, September 2020

Mexico, February 2020

6:27 am Morning run. It’s dark outside. The streets are quiet, the sky is deep purple. The moon is not full and seems to smile at me.

When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
All the saints we see
Are all made of gold
–
When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all
And the blood’s run stale

“Demons” by Imagine dragons is playing in my headphones. And, I am running back and forth on Orizaba Street, like a mad woman.
A taxi driver is washing his green car with a rag, he dips into an old bucket of paint. A short woman in uniform walks with determination, holding a twigs-broom on her shoulders. I believe she is on her way to work.

I want to hide the truth
I want to shelter you
But with the beast inside
There’s nowhere we can hide

I pass a school girl, in her uniform too. High white socks, a heavy school bag and a woolen hat pulled over her head. The air is cold but I’m hot.

When you feel my heat
Look into my eyes
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide
Don’t get too close
It’s dark inside
It’s where my demons hide
It’s where my demons hide

Four years later, my rage is intact. Life has taken me to Mexico. San Antonio is the name of my neighborhood, in San Miguel de Allende. I’m running on that short strip of smooth cobblestones. I can’t seem to take off but only to crash. My world has collapsed, my soul is torn apart and I don’t know how to go on living. I want to scream. I run to reset. I run to shut down my unwanted thoughts but, you are on my mind. I feel your pain.

A German Shepard barks at me every time I run under his balcony, his head out, through the wrought iron grilles. In an adjacent street, I see a silent shadow passing by; the shadow of a man on a bicycle, holding half a dozen of leashes. He is the dog walker.

Don’t want to let you down
But I am hellbound
Though this is all for you
Don’t want to hide the truth

6:55 am The darkness is slowly fading away. La tienda de Dona Rosa ¹ is opening. A couple of customers are already waiting. I didn’t see in a while, the old lady dusting off the street, in her night dress.
I end my run breathless. I completed four laps on Orizaba. It is not much. My soul is still crying but I relieved my body and, my mind is calmer. I walk home. Paloma is greeting me at the gate, wagging her tail. We climb the stairs to the rooftop.
A gentle light is skimming the city. A hot air balloon is witnessing San Miguel wakening. Birds are conversing in a loud cacophony. Mosquitoes are still on their operating hours. A couple of humming birds are foraging in the cactus flowers. The roosters seem to be the last ones to wake up.

Sunrise. Sunset. Another sunrise. Four years have passed. Four years of trying to make sense of what has happened. I wonder if you watched the sun rising before you took your life. Or, maybe it was the sun setting. Were you inhabited too, by this abyssal vacuity that fills me and, asking yourself: what am I doing here?
I wonder what was your last thought or, your last feeling. Maybe there were no more thoughts or feelings, only that pain. That pain and that certainty that you don’t belong here, that the world is not fair. You said that often: “It’s not fair”. You were wondering where do you belong to. You were tired of fighting. There seemed no place for you, where you could be you. You pulled the trigger. Your fight is over, you passed it on to those who love you.

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[1] “Madam Rosa’s shop” in Spanish.

The bird collision

On February 20th, 2020, a bird hit my nose. I remember the date because, February 19th was our wedding anniversary. Nati was the romantic one. He wanted to get married on February 14th but, there was no Saturday, February 14th, in 2011. So, we got married on Saturday, February 19th, 2011.

I am walking down on calle* 28 de Abril Norte. The sweet aroma of the pastries, just coming out of the oven, is following the baker who is leaving the panadería**, in front of me. He loads his trays in a small truck, takes his apron off and goes for his round of deliveries. I turn right on Pila Seca. Then left on Quebrada. I cross over Quebrada bridge and I have a look at the busy calle* Canal below. The hills surrounding San Miguel are lost in a light blue fog.
When I walk by the building at #16, I smile inside. There is a heart crossed by an arrow, carved in the cement of the window ledge. I can still read the letter M. Is it M for Marcela or maybe M for Marco? Nati was writing our initials in the sand. A short-lived memory. My mind is drifting away. He used to say, “I am a complex person”. I never asked him what he meant. Or maybe I did but, there was no easy answer. I didn’t insist, thinking he would tell me later. He never did and I never asked again. Is this cement heart, still beating? I wonder.
It is not dangerous to daydream in the streets of San Miguel. The cars stop as soon as one foot leaves the side walk. A beige house, a light blue-sky house, a yellow sunshine house. I don’t know where Calle* Quebrada became Calle* Volanteros. I turn right on Calzada de la Luz, the avenue of the light.
I go back in time. I know what is inside of our backpack. Heavy stones. Heavy stones from the past. We have been carrying them for so long that they shaped our beliefs. They distorted our perception, lowered our self-esteem. Deep wounds from childhood. They weighed you down. I wish I could have blown away, your stones, by a kiss. Sadness and rage. I seem to still swing between those two. We are not kids anymore. Now, I can only deal with my backpack. Painful excavation work ahead.

I pass in front of the artisanal shop “Los Botes“. Ceiling lights and mirror frames, made of tin. I am about to cross Calle* Juan de Dios Peza when I feel like a punch in the nose. I stop and so, my internal monologue. Silence in my head. The bird was coming from the left. I look to my left. The bird was flying fast and, low enough to reach my nose. A sharp turn on the right, on Calzada de la Luz and he disappeared. I am in disbelief.
A woman passing by, from across the street looks at me and smiles. I think she saw the collision. She sees my confusion. But she doesn’t know that Nati was a pilot and he loved my nose.
I cross Calle* Juan de Dios Peza, I pass the convenience store. I am in disbelief because, I think about that possibility: A kiss on my nose for our anniversary. Life can be so absurd.

A week goes by and, I can’t get this incident off of my mind.

It is about 10 pm when, after doing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen, I seat at my desk and, invite Nati in my dreams. I am leaving the mainstream. In the most simple way, I write in capital letters, on a thick drawing paper. He is probably still dyslexic. He could not read my cursive letters.
I want to know if it was you, the bird. I want to know where you are. What are you up to? Did you find peace? I want to know if you are fine. So many things I want to know. But I keep it short.
I light a candle and I burst into tears. I don’t know if I am bold, desperate or maybe crazy. My mind is open to more absurdities. And just in case, he decides to reply or leave an ink stain, I let the paintbrush and, the black ink by the invitation note. But this, I know, it is not going to happen. There are limits to my craziness. Out loud, I ask him again, to come in my dreams. I look at a photo of him, in his happy days, and I cry again.
A sleepless night, overthinking and, trying not to think. I don’t know what I am the most afraid of. That he comes or, that he does not. A dreamless night. Too early in the morning, Paloma scratches the door. I ignore her, I feel lifeless. The candle is still dancing on the table. No ink stains. Up at noon. A shower. An urgent need to get out and, feel life flowing inside me.

This is, this time of the year again, when I crash down. His birthday was last month, our anniversary last week and, the anniversary of his death is coming. I contemplate the hole he left behind: a battle field after the battle, wounds and broken pieces. The silence of his absence.
Tonight, I really need to see the sunset. The sun is slowly falling down on San Miguel. All I need is to find a hill, a rooftop, a quiet place, somewhere, anywhere, to seat down and watch the sun fall.
I don’t know where to go. The streets are crowded with houses stuck together. No room in between for a ray of sun or, a horizon line. I go crazy, chasing the sunset. And, I find myself back on Calle* Juan de Dios Peza, where the bird hit my nose. I wonder where the bird had come from. I walk, up and down. Right and left, searching for an opening. Calle* Augustin Lara is a dead end.
At the end of the day, we used to go for a walk in our neighborhood. Ayos Athanasios, when we were living in Cyprus. We would seat in silence, on the top of a hill and watch the sun, setting over the sea. A moment of calm, while the city below, was still restless. We would walk home, hand in hand, feeling at peace and thinking about, what we were going to make for diner.

As the world is losing its temper, my world is calming down. Juan Pablo is watering the garden. He noticed the prices of food are already raising. Maybe we could turn the ornamental garden into a botanical garden. And, grow potatoes. Or maybe spinach, suggests Brigitte.
Paloma is excited. She has been waiting for her walk, all afternoon. Juan Pablo likes to tease her. No, we are not going for biftec tacos***. Tonight, we are in quest of some dark chocolate. 
My house mate likes her chocolate with 80% of cacao, our gardener prefers 90%. I like anything between 78% and 95% depending on the seriousness of my craving. 
Non-essential businesses have been closing down one after another, in the face of the pandemic. I thought my chocolate shop had only changed its operating hours. But maybe not.
The sky is turning pink, under the heavy clouds. It’s almost sunset time and, Quebrada bridge is next door. We turn left on calle* Umaran then, right on calle* Quebrada. The bridge is deserted. Only Paloma and I. But below, on calle* Canal it is rush hour. I only see red lights driving away, out of town. In the purple sky, a fire ball is burning a thick layer of clouds.
I often lose sight of the big picture and, I focus on the little things. Sometimes this is the reflection of the lemon tree in my green tea. Another time, a red cat walking with caution on the edge of a party wall, imbedded with shards of glass. This evening, my little thing is the sunset on Quebrada bridge. It gives me peace. The sun sets quickly but it is enough. We go home, without chocolate but contentment.

On March 9th, as I walk home via calle* Orizaba, I freeze. There is a paper plane, laying down on the sidewalk. An old piece of paper with broken wings. I remember the date because, Nati died on March 10th.

A few nights later, I woke up rested. I slept well. Paloma is outside, barking at the hot air balloons. My mind is at peace. Nati answered my invitation. Our worlds have met in my dreams.

* Calle = Street
** Panadería = Bakery
*** Biftec tacos = Beefsteak tacos

Death Café or, The loss of the body

The other Monday, I was participating to a Death Café and I cried. I was not sure why. These were not tears of sadness.
Death cafés are places where strangers meet, over tea and cake, to talk about death. It sounds spooky, odd and morbid but, it is not. When we talk about death ultimately, we talk about life… and love.

When Nati took his life, his death cracked me open. He was my lighthouse and, I am left, lost in the dark. In moments of great pain and deep vacuity, I contemplate that door he left opened. From time to time, the knob is nagging at me. I am seized by dizziness.

I had this clear dream not long after he died:

We are in our respective cars, side by side, like if we were ready to engage in a race, on a dusty dirt road. No starting pistol. We drive side by side in the dust. The road becomes narrow. There is space for only one car. You speed up and pass before. I follow you. The road continues along the cliff edge of a grand canyon. You disappear ahead in a dusty cloud. The road is getting narrower. Red flags, safety barriers, construction site ahead. I have to stop. I understand I can’t follow you on that road. I get off the car, look at the horizon. A dusty point. You are no longer here. Silence. I have to stay on this side of life.

I have been struggling with the acceptance of his death because I know he is not dead. I have been struggling with guilt as well, because I can’t say I miss him.
That day, at the Death Café, a lot was said about the loss of the body. And I understood what I was missing. I miss his physicality. I miss the sound of his voice, his laughter. I miss his long silhouette in the kitchen, as he was making diner. I miss laying a kiss, on the back of his neck, while he was preparing his flight plan. I miss holding his hand. I miss his body. I mourn for the loss of his body.

I realize some of my pain is caused by the physical separation. But I know, that death is only a compartment of life.
The partition wall between life and death is as thin as a sheet of paper and, sometimes it tears up. Messages oozes through. Both ways. Synchronicities appear. I saw an arm reaching for me in the Antarctic sky. I saw a flower falling down on my laps, on a Cypriot beach. A bird kissed my nose. And sometimes, worlds meet in my dreams. The compartment is not hermetic. I know you are not dead. Only your body is.

I imagine you, the nose pressed against the window of that compartment, looking at me and trying to get my attention by all means. Paper planes with broken wings a couple of times. I’m listening like a child, with a tin can telephone pressed to my ear, hoping you are pressing the other side, to your ear too.
We are apart from each other, only by a thin sheet of paper. And, that gives me comfort.

As I walk in the streets of San Miguel, I’m thinking: You left with a piece of me. My body feels like an empty container and yet, I feel so much life and love, at the same time. When we have nothing to lose, nothing to look forward, nobody to love; we are open to life and we love everybody. This is why I cried. These were not tears of sadness.

And then, I notice on the cobblestones, two small feathers rolling all over each other, pushed by the wind. I thought of a couple, making love. A small feather and a bigger one. It could be as well, a wink from Nati. I stop and I pick them up, to save them in my wallet with all the other ones. The little things in life. These were tears of love.

Sunset on the rooftop

“Impressive Art” filter or, maybe it is my Mexican wine:
Calixa 2018 – a blend of Tempranillo, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot by Monte Xanic
Mosquitoes are going to be borrachos[1] tonight
Strong wine, a few helpless tears
Not in the wine, never in the wine.
This journey doesn’t get easier
The floor is more comfortable than the chairs,
Still warm. Blame on the burning sun.
A chilly breeze, an incandescent sky.
Nothing is permanent

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[1] “Drunk” in Spanish