I love the holidays (in part) because they're usually such an overload of people-time (family, friends, the hustle and bustle of doing all your christmas shopping on christmas eve), I'm always careful to find time for myself--to think, watch, listen, reflect. and I think being here, in Tetovo, for the holidays made me even more sensitive to myself, if that makes sense. But these past two days, I had both the opportunity and time/space to be patient with myself--take time to read, write, reflect. and I know this is totally cliche--but so much of my yuletide reflections ties back to gratitude. for having another holiday with my grandmother--even just through skype, for connection, community, family, good food. for coming home with homemade ajvar to homemade raw-milk yogurt. for being here. for having gotten here (and perhaps more importantly, how we got here).
Gratitude isn't really a feeling I've figured out how to write about and not feel like I'm just preparing for my future career as a Halmark card composer. which, honestly, I don't think I'd enjoy all that much.
so rather than writing more, I'm giving the floor to Neruda
Your Feet
When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts
the double purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
--Pablo Neruda (1959)
Here's to our feet
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