i was born at one end,
and somewhere at the other, a destination waits
that i have not yet learned to name.
between the two was a tightrope. and me, almost always tripping.
i packed for the journey like i was moving forever
luxury handbags stuffed with cheap opinions, expectations,
and the weight of being perceived,
and every other beautiful thing i wanted to keep.
on the outside, i carried everything.
on the inside, i am hollow, without any luxury labels.
for the longest time i thought the bags defined me.
that the fuller my arms, the more i was worth.
that balance meant holding on;
to all of it, always, perfectly.
or at least pretending to do so..
It took me one-third of my life to learn this –
that balance was never about holding
to all your favorites, perfectly.
but it is about learning
what to let go of mid-air.
the rope did not care what i carried.
it only cares if i am present.
am i here, in this step, this breath, this view?
but i kept looking at the bags. and i tripped.
over and over..
and the falling — oh god, the falling.
on the outside it looked like an embarrassing mess.
on the inside it was the first time
i saw my own reflection clearly.
not like the one in the mirror hung on my wall,
but in the rock bottom that caught me and said,
“look. this is who you are;
when nothing is holding you up.”
you could never have seen her from the rope.
you had to fall to find her.
and yet again i climbed back; lighter this time.
leaving behind what the fall had loosened from my grip.
the views along the way
i used to walk past them,
cautious and always calculating the time
i could spend there.
now i stop. i let them in.
there is nothing wrong with staying longer
at places that make your soul go still.
the outside world somehow calls it losing time.
the inside world might call it finally living.
and the people
some walked beside me and made the rope feel wider,
like maybe i wasn’t meant to do this alone.
and others;
unable to carry the pain of their own,
cut the rope without any obvious reasons.
and here is what i know now;
both were the journey.
both were teachers i did not ask for
and could not have done without.
the ones who carried me
showed me what love and magic looks like.
and the dear ones who cut the rope
showed me i could fall and still, still, find my way back up.
on the outside, life looked like a performance
the balancing act, the graceful steps
and the perfect yoga-like posture.
on the inside, life is something far more honest
the trembling, the doubt, the quiet strength every single morning
to step forward anyway.
we arrived with nothing.
we might leave with nothing either;
took me many round-trips around this huge ball of fire
to learn this..
and no matter how selective you are;
yet; every trip, every view, every person, every fall
becomes a part of you.
not in the bags.
and definitely not on the labels outside those.
but somewhere deep, where the rope cannot reach
in the part of you that learned to balance not by holding on,
but by finally, beautifully, letting go.
and i will share another crushed memo
i found on my way –
it was never about crossing the rope without any fall.
it was always about who you were becoming after every fall.
