Hi friends,
New letter today.
Where is your happy place? If you care to share, I’d love to know.
Thank you for reading!
Xiao-Yu
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Letter No. 11
J,
I went back to the closeby yoga studio. I found a new teacher with playlist that makes me smile. There was a guy in the class yesterday…Let me finish. His physical strength and beauty reminds me of the Greek Gods. It is a curated strength and beauty that you experience in art museums. It strikes you when you first see it, then you leave, and go about your normal life, forgetting what you saw. When you come back two months later, the beauty strikes you again and you notice something new – something you didn’t see before, a different you is standing and viewing. To see, takes time. And time, changes the seeing. For my sensitivity, I had to close my eyes for majority of the yoga class. His beauty is too intense.
Remember the collection of paintings I did with Rachel and you doing mundane daily stuff? I called the collection Home. You are dead. Rachel is halfway across the world telling me that she doesn’t want to come back. And I am here sitting upright, writing. I am amazed by my strength; in that strength, there is beauty. I thought I’d fall apart. But I am okay. I live with an open wound which I attend to daily. I can carry the pain without being destroyed by it.
In stories, writers make bad things happen to their characters. That’s how we know what they are made of. The pain alone isn’t interesting. What hooks us is the transcendence and hope. Life is so random. I want to say Love is what keeps me going. Maybe. I also experience much Mercy. It breaks my heart that I am here and you are not. But here I am. I move on to the next right thing. It is often small, simple and doable. I close my eyes and say a short prayer, and I go do it.
Stanley has passed. He lived a happy dog life. After your death, Rachel moved in with me. She brought Stanley. I did a lot of lying on the ground, so did Stanley. He was never far from me. He knew what I needed. From time to time, his body would lean against mine after he’d fallen asleep. I would feel his heat and his body pushing against mine. I would feel the rhythm of his breathing and cry. Slowly, one afternoon, I was able to roll over and hug him into my chest. He didn’t mind how stinky I was. He loved me, when I was on the ground.
Rachel has decided to stop trying for babies. In her letter, she is asking me THE question that has plagued me my whole life – where is home? There are people who have lived generations in one place, one house…They have roots. I think? I don’t know how much this concept of home matters since I never had a place. She is asking me to choose one. It was never about places for me. I had homes in people. I can see why she’s forcing me to decide. My people are gone. I am a floaty ghost. Wherever I go, there home is. Is it so?
If I had a choice, I’d move to New Zealand with you. I am not saying I will go anywhere with you. Your fondness for the bitter cold is beyond me. If people knew that sunny beach days are numbered, they’d behave differently and take the climate crisis seriously. I certainly hope we do.
I may start a teaching job soon. I am curious enough to fly to New York. Wish me luck. Bitter cold awaits. And I will pay attention when walking. New York is less forgiving.
H
