The One Paradise, An Ode to You

I pick one

Many handwritings, One signature

Many choices, One offer

Many styles, One design

Many continents, One room

Many languages, One dialect

Many dates, One relationship

Many callings, One career

I have to. Pick the Ones. Leave the Manys.

But then, I reach for my childhood Kaleidoscope, I press my eye into the opening, and I immerse myself in the pictures that appear before my mind, the dreams, the colors.

I look into the Secret Garden. I dream I walk. I breathe. I breath in the fresh, unpolluted air.

As Eve once did, I now walk through the garden. My finger tips caress the bark. It is real. I kneel down to smell the grass, the earth, the rocks. On my tip toes, I reach up to the twig on which shy green leaves emerge slowly and yet so fast. I leap forward over my own shadow. It and my guardian angel catch up to me right away. I twinkle into the sunshine.

I am in the Secret Garden

Where I can be a lot of things, a dancer most of all, a fairy.

Where I don’t have to narrow down, focus in, where I can lift my gaze and see behind the rose-bush, up to the horizon instead of using a magnifying glass to plan for the immediate next step.

Where I don’t have to squeeze myself through little holes, fragmenting my entire being.

Where I can see the Green of Hope.

And as I am wondering, wondering, lost in time and space, finding myself in Nature, away from the world where there are no benches because no body ever pauses, rests, reposes, I miss you.

I dance down the path, every step is free and spontaneous, and yet, I miss the echo that your step creates right below me, next to my feet.

I turn the rocks around to see the worm, and I miss hearing the language that you speak to it.

I smell the grass, and I miss the smell of your hair beside my head near the ground.

So don’t you worry. The Secret Garden is where I go to be One, every now and then, when I need a deeper breath than even the Yoga class allows.

I know, in my mind, that in this life, time’s linearity stretches me thin, it lets me by many, but only one. at. a. time. Except for my signature – that one always has to be the same. I do get to be a dancer, then a scientist, then a fate and a lift, then a guess then an answer, then a prayer, a meditation, a wrinkle, youth eternal, the owner of hands with soft fingertips, the rainbow, a double rainbow, questions over questions, a definitive rule. In this life, I get to write a sentence, change my mind, and change it on the paper. I get to be a writer, a painter, they just can’t occur in the same moment, never. So instead of fragmenting myself onto different time linearities, I just stick to one time and one thing at that one time. And that means that I can only be one thing, using only one fragment of my heart, my mind, my soul; I can only dream one dream.

Behind this curve, I get to a playground. I sit on the bench, next to me is a little child, swinging, giggling with eternal childhood joy. I think of you. I miss you. You are not in the garden with me, because in the garden, I could only be with you and not with me at the same time. Or could I. I feel you on my skin; you come with the spring breeze. Do you miss me as well?

I would trade the garden for being with you immediately. Without the blink of an eye. With you, I can be more than one thing. I could be in the real world in which time slows things down. That means I can be with you longer. More. And when you are with me we can only be with each other. Except for in our minds; they can slip through the minds. Here in the garden. I miss you more and more, and so I get up, smile at the child, and leave the garden behind.

The loud traffic hits my ears like the big white cotton ball hits the animal skin that is spread across the round, wooden drum. It sweeps me off, drowns me in exhaust fumes. I breathe in; my lungs are used to it. It makes them stronger. I stop at the bakery at the corner. The fresh butter melts on the soft baguette. Every bite is paradise on my tongue. Only your kiss is even more paradise. Come and kiss me. I now really really want to be with you, so I start walking faster. I do take time to greet the familiar faces of this neighborhood, but I can only think of you. What are you doing? Will you be with me?

When I get to your door, I’ve gone through all scenarios in my head. The best one I could not see – it was blurry.  But it was so good. There were files, and piles, and white sheets, greets, a neighborhood, little voices, laughter, alarm clocks, glasses, one lens broken, probably mine, grass, flowers, a puddle, dance music, cold beer and lemonade, cars, basketball, yes basketball, flowing hair in the wind, tight jeans on me, loose boxers on you, bra on the floor, the morning sun.

We spend the night, and I wake up in your arms. I’m the happiest, luckiest. Who is the one she is and perfectly, whole-heartedly is.

Let’s go to the garden sometime. You go, then I go, then let’s meet up on the playground. Let me know what you think.