Midnight in my room

It is close to midnight in my room;

The noises of the house have gone to sleep.

I can hear my heart beat and my bones stretching as my feet kiss the floor,

But the house is alive, talking in it’s sleep

As it dreams of dragons rushing through it’s pipes

and children coughing in it’s sheets.

Then, the quiet settles in, down from the basement to my mind;

I pour some wine, and it is pink,

Like my fingernails, like my heart, like my breath, like the clouds on my walls.

I loosen my grip as I breathe out the fight

That has kept me awake for so many midnights.

So I start to notice my room as my second skin

As it bears my bruises and dreams, my chaos and my peace.

I look around inside my room as I would look inside myself;

A simple inventory, to mark the surroundings

For Colonel Buendia, if he ever comes back to visit.

I see I see because there is light inside my room

As I light my cigarette, I remember to light my inner fire as well

The one I promised him I would always, always keep burning

so he would find his way back to me,

I promised him.

There are two candles burning my room,

one for my soul,

one for the soul of my house

That shelters my room, my second skin, and all of the bodies and souls within.

There are flowers, wild flowers, picked from my garden, lilacs and wood-lilies

And borrowed flowers, orchids and nameless weeds

All pressed against the window of my heart, looking out, for sunlight,

At midnight.

There are paintings on the walls of my room, the home of my soul.

Some of which I painted:

Like the portrait of my soul friend holding my new daughter;

Like the portrait of me, the selfless-me, the soul-me, the wise-me,

with her Romanian blouse, her bat and her pelican,

smiling over the other me, the self-me, the proud-me, the hurt-me;

Like the drawings of the shaman and the maya priest;

Or the drawings of little cute animals

that I made while I was pregnant with my first born

and that still hang on the walls of this room from the time it was her own;

Some of which were painted by other women:

Like the portrait of me smiling so gracefully and tenderly

That it makes my heart melt every time I see it;

Like the twin of the two paintings we received in our weeding day as a gift,

The one I took away with me when we separated and divided paintings;

Like the sketch of the letter ‘L’ in old story books style

That my father gave to me when my first daughter was born

And I named her after my mother, ‘L’ for Lili;

Like the drawing of that very same daughter, pinned to my wall

A family of peacocks:

mother peacock,

father peacock,

daughter peacock, and baby peacock

and all sort of egg peacocks waiting to hatch.

There are also pictures, all sorts of them:

Like the one of a woman’s belly, wearing a white dress and a red apple;

Like the one of my mother, Lili, wearing a white lily in her hair;

Like the one of my sister holding a bouquet of sun flowers in her arms

I know it is her, although you can only see her feet, her hands and the flowers,

I know it because I took the picture

And I remember that day, and the clothes I wore

and the love I bore inside my heart

as we were walking together to my grandmother’s house;

She was still alive, that day;

Like the one of me and my daughter

sitting on a wooden bench facing the blue sea;

Like the one of my beloved smiling at me

On that very first day he took me sailing

For my very first time.

There is my altar,

with it’s crystals and angels and tarot cards

by the looks of which one might say I am a witch

burning locks of my hair in my Tibetan bowl

together with my fears and old pacts I chose

to no longer keep,

together with my tears as I weep

about hurts I no longer need;

with it’s embroiled phoenix bird and it’s owl

singing a perpetual song to all of my spirit animals;

with it’s jar of sea water and sea sand

reminding me of the gift of silence

and inner space, forever in me;

with it’s new pacts written on tiny pieces of paper

that replaced the old ones that burned

like the one stating that I now trust men

and that I now deserve ecstasy;

like the one reclaiming my power;

and the one proclaiming my love for me.

There is my drum,

The one that has guided my amazing dream journeys,

The one that came to me through the gift of my beloved,

Custom made for me be the mystical drummer man

Who died shortly after crafting my gateway to the Underworld

And to so many other-worlds that I have visited

Lead by her sound and my intuition;

She watches over the entire space, ever so gracefully

Ever so powerfully,

Waiting patiently

For me to pick up her stick and

Embark on yet another amazing adventure

To the realm of the soul

And to dream it back home

To me.

There are my brushes and colors,

My white canvases and sketchbooks

Also patiently waiting

For me to respond to the call of my soul;

I haven’t touched them in months,

Not since I quit school

Not since the call went silent

Not since I have been searching for a ‘real’ job

That earns a living

That earns autonomy,

That feeds children,

That allows for rooms like these,

Not since…

There are my books,

My soul books,

The ones on the shelf,

And the ones on my desk,

Like ‘The women who run with the wolves’

Always close to my heart, close to my womb,

The wild woman’s bible,

Her instruction manual,

The one that has found it’s way to me

In unexpected ways.

There is my meditation pillow

Where I sit back

And just breath

In

And

Out.

There is my reading chair

That used to be my rocking chair

And breastfeeding chair,

That I’ve only used once to read

Some of Plato’s dialogues

That made me wonder…

There are my four agreements

Glued to the wall

Next to my reading space,

So I never forget

To never assume anything,

To always speak my truth, be impeccable with my word

To always do my best,

And the last one, the one I always forget,

I have to turn around, and read it:

To…

Not take anything personally.

Yes, the hardest one to remember,

Always.

There is my calendar,

Frozen in March,

With Audrey Hepburn playing golf,

The month my beloved walked away,

There was a full moon on the 23d that month,

Also the beginning of summer time,

The change of hours,

The change of minds,

But never the change of heart.

There is an icon of the Madonna,

Beholding her child,

Reminding me of compassion

And the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

There are endless scribbles on countless pieces of paper

Scattered around my desk,

Scattered around my mind,

Scattered around my past,

My mourning labor,

My own death ritual,

That of letting die what is supposed to die,

That of burying what is dead,

That of bowing to death as I bow to life,

As I bow to my beloved,

As my torturer, my teacher,

My soul.

There is my midnight dance floor,

My fortress,

My temple,

My window to the outside,

to the neighborhood,

to nature,

to the sky,

to God.

There is my glass slipper,

Abandoned by the door.

In this room, I walk barefoot,

Naked before the mirror on my wall,

Transparent,

Luminous,

Forever longing,
Forever singing,
Forever dreaming,
Forever dancing,

Forever whole,

Forever in love.

At midnight in my room,
My second skin,
The home my soul lives in.