but I want to be who I am

going where I’m going, all over again.

The Problem with Travel

Every time I’m in an airport,
I think I should drastically
change my life: Kill the kid stuff,
start to act my numbers, set fire
to the clutter and creep below
the radar like an escaped canine
sneaking along the fence line.
I’d be cable-knitted to the hilt,
beautiful beyond buying, believe
in the maker and fix my problems
with prayer and property.
Then, I think of you, home
with the dog, the field full
of purple pop-ups—we’re small
and flawed, but I want to be
who I am, going where
I’m going, all over again.

~Ada Limón

photo by Maria Teneva on Unsplash

The span of time between Christmas and New Years is the pause after an exhale. It’s still and empty, expectant and full of potential. It’s a let-go, an ending. It’s a hollowing out, a making space before filling back up and carrying on. It’s humble, and less showy than it’s chest-puffing-spine-straightening-shoulders-back-inducing counterpart. It’s a hugging in, it’s a midline squeeze. It’s a priority revealer. If the inhale is a drawing in of life, the exhale is a death, which is why hanging out in the pause afterward is so uncomfortable. It provokes a quiet chaos, it signals the system to attention, it slows time all the way down.

In my yoga training, we were taught that each human has a set number of breaths they are given over their lifespan. As such, the longer the breath, the longer the life. We can extend our lives by expanding our capacity to breathe deep. And my mind turns toward lungs, and ventilators; and how the breath tightens and constricts exactly in those moments where some depth and space and slowness are needed most; how, after a year of so much loss, so much death and grief, I am sick of this pause, I am aching for more life.

I started this newsletter on April 4th, 2020, almost three weeks into San Francisco’s first shelter-in-place order. One of the themes that has emerged and stayed close ever since is the persistent, over-and-over-and-over erasure of horizons. And here we are again, at a time typically defined by horizon scanning, by projecting forward, by dreaming up the future or scheduling it down onto a calendar or some sweet spot combination of both, on into January. Even if you’re one of those people who doesn’t “do” resolutions, it’s impossible not to imagine how this year, we’ll be different. This time, we’ll do better: we’ll forgive our fathers and love our children in a way that they will never question and we’ll floss on the regular for real this time and we’ll start writing or quilting or singing again, and yeah, maybe we’ll take up running or lifting weights or hiking and guess what, by doing so, we’ll expand our capacity to breathe, the latter of which maybe isn’t at the forefront of our consciousness but is an incidental perk which maybe isn’t incidental at all, maybe it’s absolutely essential that we all learn how to breathe more deeply, we all do whatever it takes to stay right here, full of as much life as possible.

A few weeks ago my housemates were out of the house for most of the weekend, and the weather was nasty, and there’s of course not much to do, so I hunkered down and made my way through some projects, films, books; I cuddled with Tater and watered the plants; I made coffee, coffee, chai. And it was Saturday afternoon and the sun was going down and suddenly this feeling of contentment swept over me and I cried a little realizing, my god, this is what it’s like to enjoy your own company.

So we stay home with the dog a little longer.

I’m still thinking forward into 2021. I picked a word for the year, as like, a theme, and I’ve already set up my budget for January and filled out my calendar down to my lunch breaks like a nerd. And, if this year has taught me anything, it’s to not rush through the exhale. The exhale is a chance to ground into our bodies the physical sensation of letting go. So the next time something disappears from the horizon (and we know it will), I can quiet down instead of constrict. I can partner, instead of push. I can slow time down; I can face life with my eyes open.

And I’m sitting here cold, staring out the window at a rainy winter scene, and I’m fantasizing about warm, sandy beaches, and minimal clothing, and fresh coconuts, and then I’m back in the pause after the exhale, and yes, it’s uncomfortable. I am hollowed out, and what is pressing its way in are not goals and intentions and trips and milestones and celebrations, but the tenderness of gratitude, for our smallness and flaws, for all it took to get us here, yes, through this year, but through all the years before, too, that have us looking together at a future that is not written, that has us scared and uncomfortable but also earnest and reaching, despite our best efforts, despite knowing better. We can’t help ourselves; the inhale is on it’s way.

*

One last thing: I’d like to sincerely thank you - yes, you - for your eyes on my words this year. Thank you from the tips of my fingers and toes to the edges of every last of my hair follicles for reading, for every time you clicked the little heart icon at the top of the posts, for every comment and email. Being here with you all has given me purpose and focus this year and I am a bit verklempt with emotion just thinking about it. Thank you, thank you, and as always, I’m here. Love you all and see you on Friday for our first post of 2021 <3

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Slow Motion Sober is a newsletter and community for creative types who are sober or curious about sobriety, and all the life-y intersections along the way. It's written by me, Dani, a writer, facilitator and sobriety advocate in San Francisco, CA. 

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