This piece was written during an experimental Free-Writing Rotation inspired by the image above (from the Jungian archetypal Tarot); first section Hannah Custis, second Tabitha Silver, third Gina Russom.
I surrender, a willing self-sacrifice, I float upon the waters of the deep, suspended, buoyed by the depths beneath me. I cannot control what happens next – I only float upon the waves, upon the tide that gently pulls me, gently rocks me.
It is a beatific resignation that finds me here. I find myself a reluctant saint, a dying god, a hanged man. Every morning I wait for the bus at 145th street and Convent Ave – most mornings I see it pass along the horizon as I approach. I’m too late to make the 7:22, the 7:19, the 7:35 – it seems whatever time I arrive, I’m always too late. I sigh and shrug and wait, surrendering quietly to wherever the day takes me, the quiet hour of the morning where I can only guess what is going to happen to me next, push aside my anxiety, push aside my apprehension, float upon the surface of the water and the unpredictable tide of the Bx19 bus schedule, follow the current wherever it takes me.
By now, I thought I would be nominated for sainthood, the endless patience I play like a game.
But the vote didn’t go as planned. There are pledges and campaign trails but sainthood has become more like politicking than I was led to believe. So I’m still waiting apprehensive and anxious.
What’s next – if your plan doesn’t turn out how long do you wait, how long do you float? Floating is like a breath – the inhalation – the rise then there’s the fall – necessary and a relief – surrender to the universe.
There’s a divinity to my drive – my devotion to the unknown, the chaos. I ready myself for the journey each day, my eyes still gritty after waking from sleep.
The perfect still moment between sleep and wakefulness, just before you haul yourself up to meet the day. That’s floating for me. Being buoyed by half-forgotten dreams, feeling duties trickling in, erasing the night’s adventures. Feel the plan take hold, the list of to-do’s and must-do’s and probably won’t-do’s. What happens to the master plan? Who’s writing it? If it’s all inevitable, isn’t floating falling anyway? If we’re always late, we’re on time for something else. Early even.