“Yo he visto mi alma en sueños”
I spent Mother’s Day at a metal show. Someone with one of the bands recognized me quite surprisingly on the street in my neighborhood from the time I worked in live music and offered me a free ticket. “It’s been a while,” I said, “Good to see you.” A while being two years. I finished my walk—my daily healing 10,000 steps. Then I showed up. Missing my mom like crazy. My physical body feeling energized from the healing vegetarian food and the walk; my mind feeling exhausted from the racing thoughts. I found a friend I had not seen in ages. “It’s been a while,” I said, a while being once again two years.
Metal is the great equalizer. The frontman screamed. Dove off the stage. Sang while hoisted up over the shoulders of two burly bouncers. Broke the bass. There was moshing. People throwing their bodies around with reckless abandon. It was loud—a loud I had never heard before. A loud that quieted my mind. There was something so human about it. Something so real. In the chaos of the room, I found peace. “If you don’t believe in God, what do you hope in?” my friend, a fellow atheist, asked me in a moment in between sets. We often have deep conversations. “I believe in love,” I told him, “That whatever came before, and whatever comes next, it is love. But beyond that, I don’t care.” I often don’t know how to answer the questions of others. But I found a sliver of that infinite love right there, amid the screaming and the moshing, on a day I try desperately to avoid. It is the kind of absurd that a lot of people miss out on—the rare, beautiful kind. But you have to show up; you have to pay attention.
What does love look like, however, when I am all alone? When I remove my earplugs and walk home from the show? When I leave my friends and crawl into bed? Where is love when my thoughts are racing—when I will do anything in heaven, on earth, or in hell to quiet them down? These are questions from myself I don’t always have the answers to. I think some of it starts with my habits. Little ways of showing compassion. Cooking—nourishing my body. I am feeling satiated for the first time in eight months—tofu, rice, beans, kale. Who would have thought. I have broken free from hot pocket starvation. Walking—walking as far as I can. I have blisters all over my feet now and my legs are sore. I’m not used to moving this way all the time. I can feel myself getting stronger, and I have an appreciation for these legs that I didn’t have before. Compassion for my physical self. The compassion for my mental self comes less easy. In times of productivity, I appreciate what my mind can do. But in the down time, when the sun goes down, what then? Do I have worth simply for existing, even in this state, as my therapist would tell me?
I think about my mom. I think about what she would say. I think about her handwriting that I have and the small bits of her mind. I remember her face; her laugh. I think she would agree with my therapist.
Yo he visto mi alma en sueños. Words from Antonio Machado, one of the several Spanish-speaking poets I adore. I read that line around 11 at night in my bed, sleepless and miserable. It’s true—I too see my soul in dreams. I see myself free. I picture the essence of me liberated. I picture acceptance. From myself. I picture a me that isn’t real yet—a me embodying love. Yo he visto mi alma en sueños, pero puedo hacer mi alma una realidad. Puedo existir. Puedo llorar. Puedo sonreír. Soy yo. Soy yo por fin—soy yo por siempre—siempre he sido yo. Words added to his. Maybe this is what I hope in—an answer for my friend. I believe in the vision of myself in my dreams. I believe that someday I will see it. I believe that someday it will be as loud, as present, as visceral as the metal show. But beyond that, I don’t know. And that is okay.