Looking down over concrete blocks from the 9th floor, this San Luis skyline is one of hard, monotonous angles. But purple bursts like gifts adorn the cobblestone streets, peek out over protective walls, soften the sharp corners of the city. The jacarandas are in bloom - their contorted grey trunks can barely support the canopies laden with lavender. They remind me it's Spring in this desert place that seems to be in eternal Spring - no definition between seasons, warm, warmer, hot, hotter, and cool nights like autumns in Washington.
I miss Washington today. There the cherry blossoms are blooming. Pink, playful canopies like parasols ring the tidal basin, line the lucky streets. My friends are having their traditional champagne picnic under their blooms by the Jeff Memorial this week. The
wind tosses confetti into the air and children dive to catch it. I almost ache to be part of that scene –
always still a little chilly in March, so we shiver on our blankets, before optimistic
picnic spreads, peeling shrimp with frozen fingers.
And
Sunday mornings, Chantelle’s yoga class meets at 11:30, her opening
inspirational readings and graceful routines and lavender oil ending. I miss.
I
even miss my Sundays after class, all relaxed, in the lonely Van Ness Starbucks
doing my writing, the smell of coffee hanging in the air, the whoosh of the
latte machine, and the movement of tourists going down under, embarking on the
Metro for a day of sightseeing.
I
miss my Sunday Washington loneliness, knowing I will have dinner with my
friends that night.
I
miss a life of connections – and I know I romanticize it from a distance – from
up here on the 9th floor of the Real Plaza where they put me up on
weekends so I can teach classes at the university.
But saudades is a kind of
missing that I love. I learned in Brazil to celebrate the missing with a bossa nova beat. The feeling is warm
inside my belly. It’s a form of
grasping, I know. Be in the here and
now, the Buddha says. But at least I
know it – I see it – I am putting my curious attention on this feeling and
recognizing that it’s something that I create.
I
need not cling to those visions, but simply appreciate them as …joy,
mudita. Can we have joy for the past
happiness of ourselves? And our potential happiness, appreciation, for going
back to that life we left behind?
I
think the Buddha would be okay with that.
