Beyond the circumference
On trusting the uncertain
I’ve been on somewhat of a break from publishing here as I focus more on the final stages of writing out my thesis. Academic writing can sometimes feel like a beast that refuses to let you go, and when it has a hold on you, the only parting to come is when that final submission date comes knocking…which is in a few months for me. So even though I get a slight reader’s guilt from picking up a book unrelated to my thesis topic (sorry, drought!), I’ve found that there’s no other way to keep my creative and thinking juices flowing than to ignore that guilt.*
I originally published this piece last year around this time. I’m not too sure if it’s the cold, wintry weather that also comes with a similar internal hibernation, but I’ve been thinking some more about the process of untethering and trusting what lies in the beyond when certainty isn’t always guaranteed. Revisiting this piece has allowed me to trust the process some more, especially on days when it feels as though the rain has turned into a torrential downpour.
I’m also resharing the piece featuring some other artwork of Calida Garcia Rawles whose work I really admire. I find that she captures fluidity so expansively - almost like a reminder to lean more into our elemental being-ness as bodies of water. We may be solid in the skin, often (frantically) seeking the certain through a similar, tangible skin; but what if we welcomed an expansive fluidity instead and leaned more into the uncertain?
Till next time!
(Un)tethering:
What I (we) know:
There is comfort in the familiar.
There is comfort in the knowledge of how things have always been done. How things must follow through. If you know the script, why deviate away from its lines? And what good, one may ask, is another story amidst the many other existing stories that pave the way for you?
There is comfort in sinking oneself into the cushion of certainty. Drinking the cup of, “This is safe. It does not scare me. Let me stay longer.” (Longer: 2 months…1 year…10 years… 'longer’ lengthens in its lengthening…)
Amidst our landscapes stands a piece of wood driven to the ground, hammered solidly into place. Around this wooden piece is a rope, tightly strung around it, and then attached to one’s waist. This rope marks the radius upon which one can move. Our circumferences. A tethering to what we know.
By this piece of wood stands a tree. One that has grown tall over the years, providing a canopy and shade and comfort when the sun burns and the rain falls. And though this familiar tree continues to produce fruits, they are scarce in nature and have long remained the same. The assurance that the fruits shall always bear, that the sweetness shall always remain the same, the taste not foreign to our tongue, tethers us more solidly. Why leave when certainty waters the roots of this tree?
And so one stays, familiarising themselves even more with the grass that now grows and withers and grows and withers and grows…at the same rate…at the same time…in the same manner. And should a new crop bloom, it is restricted, for our movement has long degraded the fertile soil; the tree’s canopy has long restricted the light from coming in; the circumference has long defined what ought to grow and what ought not to.
Comfort, of course, has a hold on you. The rope, you know, must remain tethered to this soil, to your being - here, within this circumference.
Beyond the circumference:
What I (we) may not know:
The sun will burn and it will scorch. And yet there will be moments when the passing clouds will offer wonder and protection. Some, like the cirrus, will paint the sky in a beautiful flurry manner. Others, like the cumulus, will provide shelter unconditionally even as they shake off their fluff in tiny droplets. They will come, they will go and they will change - yet “all these sights and sounds and smells will be ours to enjoy— this lovely world, these precious days…”**
Thunder will roar, lightning will strike, and the torrents shall pour. But even a garden must go through the chaos of tilling before seedlings are scattered across it. Before silence follows them deep into the ground where their roots extend far and wide, solidly rooting their foundations. Only in the silence of its being does a tree perhaps become aware of its tune and the rhythm it beats to.
The best part about gardening (to me at least) is the weeding. The clearing and the tugging, the pulling and removal. Disconnecting the budding plants from the familiarity of the thorns that grow around them. Some may be intertwined around the plants and those are tougher to remove, for they require extra care, caution and patience. But over and over again, the weeding must be done if new growth is to thrive.
Who, or perhaps what drove the stick to the ground?
What strung the rope around the waist, marking the restricted circumference?
What said that familiar grass is all that there is to this landscape?
What whispered the sounds of the burning and the scorching sun, the belief that the torrents will flood over you if you dare cross the circumference?
Beliefs that we think are so inherently true to who we are that we cannot navigate and move past them; forgetting that becoming isn’t an arrival, but the constant welcoming of multiple and plural versions of ourselves as the seasons change. Stories we have so tenderly built homes around when they wear us down. Familiar sounds that ring loud and clear distracting us from letting go of this rope. For in truth, if we are to look closely, it is we who tighten the ropes around the waist even as it continues to wear out and shrink our bodies.
Realise that the grass you tread upon has become worn out by the constant steps you have made in this enclosing as you reason with the ‘what if’s.’
Perhaps the horizon beyond this circumference could as well be a foresight into the unlived desires our ropes have us tugging at. Like bread crumbs, guiding us forward into the awareness that what we might not know of now, will become clear in time, only if we untether ourselves. Discomfort says, “Put down that which you think you know and pick up that which its beauty you will come to understand in time. Trust. Untether. And when you are ready, move beyond the circumference.
*Some guilt-less readings and films I’ve been indulging in:
**I re-listened to ‘Charlotte’s Web’ by E.B. White as an audiobook recently and every time I see a little spider somewhere, I can’t help but go, “Hey, Charlotte!” It’s a book full of magic!
‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’ by Khaled Hosseini. I picked this up last week after several years of having it on my ‘to read’ list. It’s been hard to put it down - let’s see where the story leads.
I started “Beloved” by Toni Morrison and had to set it aside given the weight of the story. Perhaps because I’d just finished re-reading Christina Sharpe’s ‘In the wake: On Blackness and Being’ for my thesis. I’ll come back to it, that I know for sure.
A friend recommended and shared ‘Barn Burning’ by Haruki Murakami. There are many layers to this short, gripping story. Read it again. And again. And again. Maybe you’ll understand.
‘The Faraway Nearby’ by Rebecca Solnit. This was a wonderful read on stories; how they form us and who we are/aren’t without them. It’s a story of stories intertwined with lessons on empathy, compassion, and being human.
“So Long, My Son.” "…a piercingly, profoundly moving picture that peels and exposes the senses.” Grab a box of tissues and set aside 3 hrs. All I can say is that I haven’t watched a movie that does such a wonderful job of capturing the essence of humanity and the extreme conditions people face under brutal political policies. Saint Omer, comes just as close!