Soup By Volume Two

by Lisa Southard

  Chapter 7: Words From April 2013

  Athena’s Dive

  Down to the deepest point of the lonely ocean, where compression draws straight through me, there is no strength to resist it. Flattened, with such ease. All the reasons, they are drowned too, they are saturated, dissolved. They are simply part of where I am. A secluded part of who I am. We all sink, sometimes.

  This deep, no other voice can reach.

  I must speak with myself.

  Is this reversible? Or am I drowned forever?

  That will depend on what you choose.

  I don’t know what to choose. I can’t find the right way. I’m lost.

  You are not lost. This is part of your path.

  How do I stop feeling lost, then?

  You are at the centre of your own story: focus on this.

  Is that not selfish and is selfish not monstrous?

  That is the wrong question. Do you want your story to be a selfish one? That is the correct question.

  No. Is my answer. I know that answer.

  You know all of the answers.

  But it is tiring, knowing what to do. One must make that extra push, and bring it to action. Sometimes: I just want to throw a crisp packet in a hedge. I used to spit chewing gum out of the car window. I miss that: sometimes. In the depths of the lonely ocean, I dream of froth.

  There is always dancing, and wearing beads that sparkle in all lights.

  Yes, I remember now. And if I were never here, the lightness would mean so much less.

  I remember, I regain: swim upwards, laughing.

  Vacation vs. holiday

  Holiday- a day set aside by law or statute as exempt from regular business activities to commemorate a date or festival.

  A Holy Day: a part of a nation’s history.

  Vacation- a scheduled period of time during which regular business ceases.

  Vacate: relinquish, empty, withdraw.

  Please mull over that in your own time: which you would prefer, whether it matters.

  Right now, my perfect time would be spent with an espresso machine, a library, a laptop, a blank sketchpad, a sunny beach.

  What I have is a stovetop espresso pot, a small bookcase, the internet, a laptop (slightly cranky) some clear sketchbook pages and a damp garden.

  This is not a complaint, for it’s not too far removed from the ideal. This damp garden has primroses, chairs clustered around the bonfire ash, a rogue chicken and eight budding currant bushes.

  My answer to the question is: forget semantics, let your lexicons fall: if the sun shines, close your eyes, bask.

  Ululations

  Once upon a time I was never going to start training in Tae Kwon-Do. I tried it, because I am always curious about things and it seemed polite to pay some attention to the profession of the man I was dating. All I ever seemed to hear was ‘Are you going to do Tae Kwon-Do then?’ (In an annoying singsong fashion: not how it was said, that’s how I heard it…) Being a strong, independent, working mother I did what I did, not what my boyfriend did: but I liked him enough to try a lesson. Both things worked out rather well.

  I never liked gradings, though, they made me horribly nervous and full of distracted mistakes, until I reached red belt, when, in spite of nerves and still with odd errors, there was a confidence growing. It was the confidence of having made it through all the previous gradings, the confidence of knowing my training was ample. Also, before we grade, we have the ritual of the pre-grading, where the Instructor tests the students to see if they are ready. At the Black Belt pre-grading, a panel of Senior Instructors views the contenders. At the time, they seem to be made of granite, with cold lasers for eyes. The first one I did, I did shaking, with sick in my throat, almost hoping that one of my bones would snap so I may be excused. Afterwards, the elation of survival flooded through so powerfully it is a miracle I did not burst. The actual grading went okay- that is how I remember it- nothing too weird or off balancing because I already knew I could do it. I thought about how much I wanted that Black Belt.

  Black Belt is often thought of, in Western circles, as the culmination of the martial arts process, but in our Art it is a beginning. Going through the colour belt syllabus is like an apprenticeship, or like learning to drive. Who earns a driving licence and never gets in a car again? So for two years I have been training and learning as a novice Black Belt, and last week I earned my Second Dan. The nerves are not eradicated, far from it: just a bit easier to override. At the pre-grading I said to myself, if you dislike this process so much, go for 2nd Dan, since you’ve got this far, and then never grade again, it’s enough, it’s fine. But in the course of the extra training, I have learnt so much, about my Art and about myself: by the day of the grading, regardless of those irritating doubting fears, I was already looking forward to gaining a 3rd Dan.

  Usually, I write about my world rather than myself but I want to have this record of how I waded through a fearful place and got to somewhere exultant. I will need to read it, three years from now.

  All life journeys have points where you can freeze or you can progress: it’s easy to know that, a little trickier to practice!

  X is for Algebra

  X is the unknown, the independent variable: also the mark of treasure, of affection, of the illiterate.

  Here is a formula to consider:

  My life + X = perfect

  Dog and me, we wander the woods, hear only the wind, the river, a whir of duck wing. Thirsty eyes drink up the green, and cheer. There’s a bough over deep water that I’ve seen, and dare to climb. Here, even my slight shiver of fright is refreshing. Giggle and get down, gently, as the bank is not sturdy. Walk then, over anemones, primrose, wild garlic, baby stalks of bramble and rose, down where the fallen tree has gathered a shale beach, and off come my boots and the water is not so cold and the rocks mud-slippy. If I had thought of it, I would have drawn an X in this shored up silt, where the sun was shining through the edge of the new leafed trees.

  YES

  ’What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.’

  Richard Bach.

  An Emperor Dragonfly, tattooed on my shoulder, in flight, is always wings stretched, always having climbed from egg to grub to chrysalis to this leap of faith.

  Grub form lingers in half-light, calls the shadows home. Much is learnt in these formative shades. Grub feels comfortable in this mud, in this formational half-light: feels safe being half-formed, being unlaunched.

  This is the comfort zone of discomfort. If I hurt, if I am failed, I need not fear waiting for pain or failure to find me.

  Foolish grub!

  Life is not only harsh truths: not all truth need be harsh. Sunlight is no lie.

  Grub at the base of the reed, looking up, hesitant: drawn.

  What is it that I want then?

  To live in this half-light, as most people do, but to leave a body of work that is the beautiful, truthful guide to living in economic vagary, though people might never read it?

  To blossom in all ways and come to a life that fulfils its promise?

  Always be vulnerable, always be powerful.

  Zzzzzz

  Sleep is the drift between one day and another. Dreams come from this: tumbles of thought and hope and things that happened that we saw, or heard about, or felt.

  Night spreads like wet ink, slippery as squid, heavy eyelids sink, sink.

  Deep, down: drowned in sleep: subsumed. Held in suspension: sleep is a chrysalis.

  As we wake, shade becomes colour.

  Yes, I remember now. And if I were never here, the lightness would mean so much less.

  I remember, I regain: swim upwards, laughing.

  back to menu