I wake up thinking about this specific sensation, with the urge to put words to it. It feels like it lives around the edges of my heart, and its arrival is inconsistent. It’s a pale, electric pink that pulses and flares. I learned to imagine emotions as colors while lying in savasana, with only the best kind of instructor guiding me toward emptying my mind. It’s better to notice, then let go.
This pink sensation is sudden and sharp. It hurts and it travels. It’s in my fingertips as I write this, letting my eyes drift from the screen to notice each bird outside my window. They flit down to the peanuts I’ve put out for my crow, Reshayin, who has already flown away with his desired amount.
When Reshayin arrived, only moments earlier, tears were streaming down my face and I wanted to believe he knew exactly what was wrong. But all Reshayin knows is wanting more high-value food. Dutifully, I walk outside to greet him, but I can’t bring my voice out to sing the song. I’ll stick to these sobs, which, like Alice in front of the door she can’t open, feel impossible to stop.
I find that instead of being unsettled inside this electric pink sensation, I lean into it. Are my tears as high-value as Reshayin’s hard-shell peanuts?
The night before, in Epcot, I am hugging my friend beneath colors that light up the sky in multiple directions. I crouch down to baby D’arcy in her stroller, covered in dry cereal, and make my Piglet stuffed animal cover his own eyes with his pink floppy ears. “Oh d-d-d-d-dear,” I say. D’arcy wants me to do it again and again, so I do. As many times as she wants me to, just to make her eyes shine.
Thoughts?