emptiness of the lonely

Once upon a time, in a land of exile,... the loneliness at times sets in; a time where one's language feels so far away that even the thoughts can't seem to come at all - not in one's maternal tongue, neither in the second language. It's like being in between - on the fence - not totally part of one, or the other. Not taking sides, but never belonging either.

Those times, the winter feels long - like a white plain in a cold sun, the snow reflecting painfully the light; one only wants to take cover, out of sight - a safe refuge.

Those times, one longs for one's own tongue - one's mother's tongue.

Not that living / thinking / speaking in a second language is really the worst medicine. It's more the impossibility of being really oneself that leaves an after taste, when exposed for extended periods of time.

Once, a long time ago, I thought "I want[ed] to be a glass teacup where you can see what you drinks. I want[ed] transparency."

Only in safety can one long for transparency; the impossibility of being genuinely oneself sets in when living in a strange world. When in a vulnerable universe, one can only barricade behind the wide walls of translation, can only pretend, and never ever getting any closer than the distorting glass window.

in the depth of snow

as the sun shines through the frozen windows - early hours of the morning, when i only wish i could still be sleeping... - the cold reminds me of the reality - the necessity of rising, once again. of feeding the fire that has died down, of preparing for the day - everyone else's day as well, it seems. lunches for some, breakfast for all, potty, diaper, chickens' feedings, and the cycle keeps going. off to school for some, staying home for others - a cycle of wildness that feel nothing like rhythm.
"one day at a time" - although it seems more like "a minute at a time" - or even a second at times. being in the "here now", every day, every moment. when the future seems like the repetition of this constant business, and the light at the end of the tunnel feels like it might be a train...
... then, one knows the deep winter is here - the cabin fever intensity that makes one long to just be "outta here" ... or deep under the covers to forget and sleep. hibernation.
but a babbling child heartily convinces any old dried up heart that it's time to mind to her, to the "here and now" - and the smiles come up from down below, down from under the deep snow, and once again, one cannot resist rejoicing the simplicity of life. the gargle, a step, and snuggle. in a larger rhythm.