The Root Connection
A night spent restless. Shedding the past with each toss. Stretching into this new skin with every turn. Wide awake trying to visualize my present. My future. My eternity. Getting nowhere close to what I know it to be now. Gratifying. Grateful. Calm and precious excitement. That Pisces energy gently swimming, swirling in these first moments of consciously feeling me, creating you, becoming two.
Like the delicate fins of the rainbow fish caressing the walls of my womb. Gripping my heart, squeezing it tight, love oozing from it like ketchup from a bottle. So many more hours, days, weeks to go until I meet the tiny being responsible for these giant flutters. The blanket too much for the hormonal heat raging through my body. I kick it off. The anticipation too strong to get through this night cradled by sleep. I shake it up. Climbing up the stairs in search of sound.
Like a picky eater turning up my nose at all the textures and flavours at the table, I can’t settle on the right literary atmosphere. I can’t tune into the right musical frequency to accompany the sweet surrender to this seemingly inconsequential yet milestone moment. Windows open wide, the levante hissing through the room, my eyes roll over the scrolling screen.
The weight of doom instantly followed by the fluff and puff made to tickle human longing. Tugging the corners of indifferent lips into hopeful smiles that fade as quickly as the memory of the baited click. My mind fighting the banality of this decision, loosing out against its own state of nebulosity. When suddenly she appears in my timeline. Jumps into my time zone. She. Benediction.
A sparse room decorated with great warmth. Reminiscing the carpet in my grandmother’s living room upon which I learned to crawl. The twigs and dried flowers, souvenirs from oxygenating walks momentarily freeing us from partial, physical, mental lockdown. The framed homage on the mantlepiece, as bright and colorful as the fabric of her t-shirt, woven by smiling, dancing bears.
Only her daughter’s shoulder visible in the miniscule camera ready to record this quietly grand moment. Moving to the sound of her fingers caressing the keys of the piano, her mother’s hands strumming the chords of the guitar. August 9th, 2020, the world mourning a death as permanent as it is temporary for some. On this day, in celebration of one common, musical wire, from amidst the walls of a New York apartment.
It’s a thank you, a so long, an invitation to look up and salute that lining in the sky. To come together in our solitude, to sing and play, dance and sway in solidarity. In metaphysical union. It’s a lullaby. Rocking this adapting body of mine, not to sleep but toward savoring patience. A novel, unprecedented form of endurance.
And it’s the matriarch of punk poetry illuminating my face, equilibrizing the breathlessness of my mind. A glimpse of maternity, so powerfully subtle. I can feel it in her. Feel that chord between them loosely tightened, tightly loose. See it in that soft, insurmountable vigour. The root connection.
*
A different weight now, distributed between both shoulders. One I carry so gladly, proudly, tenderly. Those soft cheeks snuggled against my chest, taking in the world around her. Wrapped snug. Pointing out the importance of observing the rhythmic motion of trees moving in the breeze. Of embracing all that brings us comfort as she suckles herself to sleep.
Part of me wants to rush toward our destination. Reigned in by all I have learned in – almost – sixteen sweet months. A moment to acknowledge the shift. A contentedness I never thought possible. Strolling on. An urban ramble beneath big city lights. Through silently buzzing campuses housing the minds of tomorrow.
All the time in the world and no time at all. Late evening, dreaming venue. Following along the curving hedges of a king’s botanical delight when – Hello everybody…
The invisible crowd erupts in joyous cheers. Momentarily footloose, my pace quickens. The entrance ahead cleared. Security surprised by the soundly snoring concert-goer strapped against my body. Chin perched on the canyon between my breasts. They wave us through. My toes wiggle, feet gently hop, jump and skip. We made it. We’re here. A dream of life in me, made reality, living life with me. Headed for a spin. She. Recreation. She drags me in. A heroine.
I stop myself from running toward the crowd bathing in a sea of her energy. Drunken, high on her spirits. Ready to binge, mindfully, on that inimitable voice. Poetic power. Feast their eyes on that iconic style delivered with a humble swager. Basking in full appreciation of this moment. An oasis far from the hustle, about to burst into bloom with each legendary note. Cali vibes in Madrileñan spheres.
We reach the stage just as the first song comes full Redondo. And I am a gone, gone, goner, when – ours is just another skin…
My daughter – it’s almost as though she recognizes these words. The strum of the guitar. Snuggling deeper into her pouch. A live Anne Geddes photograph whenever I look down. And I do so frequently. A pinch just to be sure. This is waking life. I sway her from side to side, enveloped by Patti’s soothing sound. The plants and trees of this inner-city garden. The setting sun.
I can barely contain the ecstasy pumping through my soul. Deprived of these connective experiences for so long. Longer still by my brain. Happy tears welling when - Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
She is granting me all my wishes tonight. I can already tell. Gifting me not only a poem, but one that lives in my own bookshelf. Delivered with heart and conviction. Gifting me the art I want to expose my girl to. Packaged unkempt and booted in this, in her. Divine punk poet. Ginsberg. Dylan. The Stooges. The Beatles. Performed with warmth and attitude. Spittle on the stage.
A stir. A little shriek. Eyelashes batting open as her face stretches out of her cocoon to assess the situation. Her surroundings. Those deep brown eyes sucking me in. Out of the arena. A curious finger pointing at all the this of the world. Pointing at she. Concentrating on she.
*
Observant. Legs dangling from the banister she is sat on. Feet tapping against the wall on beat, off beat. To her own drum. Little gasps of awe and astonishment. So many lights. So many arms up in the air. Bodies dancing. Sweating, breathing, sharing after prolonged isolation. Cautiously incautious in this era’s style of surrealism. I am watching it through her eyes. We all are. Her entourage. Her strangers come friends.
We let her lead. She’s the boss. La jefa. We follow her cues. Her little steps in this big world. We follow her to edge of the crowd where she is applauded, admired as much as the main act. Her arms waving with the music, wide smiles, ceaselessly inquisitive.
No trace of fear. Secure in her surroundings. She feels at home here. Among the people. As bright and diverse as this city. Softening in her proximity. Hopeful. We’re free, baby.
And who doesn’t? Who wouldn’t? We’re together. Smith ensures we all feel it. A physical distance between stage and audience, bridged by art made tangible. Through collective connectivity.
Almost Sens8ional in concept. We’re a cluster. Held together by that silver mane. Wisdom pleated into every strand. Feeling our own rebellion rise when it comes untangled. Split ends, soft curls never straying from the authenticity of this beloved bedhead.
Patti and her band. A family event on stage with her kids Jesse and Jackson. The night comes to a close with a promise. We all have the power. To make a change, even in the smallest contributions. To redeem, the work of fools.
I watch as the lights irradiate the audience. Those hands to the skies, singing along, willing the words to be true. Like gospel. Like the words I regularly whisper into my daughter’s languorous ears.
The second I acknowledge this present perception, the second those words flow from my lips, I feel it washing over me. The strength. Those welded chords. All I’ll ever wish for you, my girl. My root connection.