I wrote this piece in November of 2015, as a creative personal response to The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. The idea of “existential code” — and some stylistic elements — come from that text. This piece, in my mind, marks the beginning of my young adult era. I would write some parts of it differently now, of course, but I have chosen to leave it as I wrote it at 17.
“Truth”
Truth is realizing that each of us is part of a vast and unfathomably complex state of universal being, that we are made of the same things as the trees and the rivers and the stars and the galaxies far beyond our sight, and that we are intrinsically interconnected. Truth is feeling the heartbeat of the Earth as intimately as I feel my own heartbeat pulsing through my veins. Truth is the overwhelming sense of simultaneous purpose and coincidence - of God and of nothingness - and reveling in the dissonance.
Truth is rooted not in knowledge, but in the lack of it. Truth is recognizing that nothing can ever truly be known, that every aspect of existence is a mystery. Truth is seeing by how far our questions outnumber our answers. Truth is the humility and the wisdom to admit that I am sure of absolutely nothing. Truth is asking questions - shamelessly, endlessly, and fearlessly walking toward the light of knowledge that will forever be an infinite number of steps away.
Truth is choosing to live a frightening reality rather than die a comfortable lie. Truth is gasping for air through broken sobs, clutching desperately at my chest, and forcing out the mangled words, “but I am not a woman.” Truth is gently rubbing neosporin over the countless cuts that I had previously intended to slowly bleed out. Truth is looking down at my naked body, seeing the breasts and the curves and the lumps and the stretch marks and the scars, and whispering to myself, “I am me, I have always been me, I will always be me, and I am enough.”
“Weight”
Weight is feeling the pain of loss, of death, of grief and of brokenness with me everywhere I go - a dull pulsing far in the depths of my mind, never ceasing to remind me that life hurts.
Weight is hating walking the streets of New York City, not because of the ever-flashing lights or the smells or the millions of people, but rather because I have to fight back tears every time I pass another person sitting on the sidewalk with their tattered blankets and cardboard signs. Weight is not being able to fight back the tears that come when I realize that I did nothing for a single person I saw on the street. Weight is realizing that with each person I pass, I see them a little bit less.
Weight is tasting vomit in the back of my throat when I read about the terrorist opening fire. Weight is rage clutching and twisting my stomach when I see the video of the officer throwing a black person’s bloody body to the ground, and shooting them mercilessly in the head. Weight is tears involuntarily streaming down my cheeks when I see yet another portrait of a trans woman murdered. Weight is leaving the classroom in the middle of a history movie because when the description of slavery began, I got so dizzy I couldn’t see straight. Weight is the tension I feel in my chest every time I hear a train’s whistle sound, as I pray with every fiber of my being that we haven’t lost another soul on the train tracks again tonight.
“Courage”
Courage is standing tall while my knees shake, face to face with a Police Line, each officer with masks down and batons out. Courage is clutching the hands of the unknown people next to me, singing songs of peace as we surround our brothers and sisters of color who lie silently and haphazardly across the city hall steps for four minutes, representing the four hours that Michael Brown’s dead body lay in the street.
Courage is dancing to my own rhythm even in the disapproving gaze of others. Courage is leaping into the air, twirling around as I giggle to myself at my poor form, landing in a mess of limbs as a tumble to the floor. Courage is standing outside in the rain, digging my toes into the muddy grass, reaching out my hands with palms up, and catching raindrops on my tongue.
Courage is “I need help.” “I was wrong.” “I don’t understand.” “Please forgive me.” “I feel broken.” “I am scared.” Courage is “I forgive you.” “I love you.” “I believe that peace is possible.” “I have faith.” “I hope.”
“Gentleness”
Gentleness is soft and fluid and kind. Gentleness is allowing the pure light of love flow through me and into the people I touch. Gentleness is offering a hug, going for a walk, holding a hand. Gentleness is smiling easily and frequently. Gentleness is believing in the core goodness of every individual, and looking for it when others refuse to find it.
Gentleness is treading lightly, leaving the land more beautiful than when I came. Gentleness is leaning down to smell a wildflower growing in the cracks of the granite, and napping with my back against a pine tree. Gentleness is singing my twelve-year-old brother to sleep when he is upset, hearing his breath ease slightly with each note of his favorite song coming from my throat. Gentleness is picking up the dog running across the road, finding the address on its collar, and soothing it as I carry it back home.
Gentleness is treating myself with the same respect I afford others. Gentleness is believing that I am more than any number will ever be able to define, that I am worthy of my existence and that I belong on this Earth. Gentleness is taking as many minutes as I need to catch my breath, to make sure my core is my center of gravity, and to give thanks for my life.
“Love”
Love is my profound and often overwhelming desire to be intertwined with another’s being. Love transcends all reason, Love is neither physical nor mental, but rather lives in an untouchable part of my soul, my spirit, my Self. Love longs to build a bridge between my soul and that of any other being who is open to the connection, to warmly embrace their spirit, to dance with their energy, and to become - if fleetingly - one with them in a single sense of self.
Love is the strongest pulling force in my soul, pleading with me to draw closer and closer still, paying not even a fleeting thought to the fire or flood I must walk through to get there. Love heeds no danger. Love does not fear pain. Love does not mind leaving me to cry, to scream, to shake, to bleed. Love is more powerful than even my most fundamental instincts.
Love is the intensification of every feeling in existence; Love stretches me in every direction, simultaneously toward opposite poles of a thousand dimensions. Love is the greatest of joy, and the deepest of despair. Love is chaos, Love is peace. Love is truth, Love is incomprehensible. Love is radiance and darkness, strength and gentleness, longing and contentedness. Love is fear and Love is security. Love is heavy. Love is light.
Love is standing on the top of a mountain, raising my arms in the air, feeling the wind against my face, looking up to the sky, and knowing that I am alive. Love is standing on the beach, wading just far enough into the ocean to feel the push and pull of the tide on my ankles over and over again, waves occasionally spraying a mist in my face, while I look and look out across the great somewhere of the sea. Love is lying on my bed with my cat asleep on my chest. Love is running to throw myself into my dad’s arms, nearly knocking him over, after too many months apart. Love is crying all over my mom, and how she doesn’t mind if I get tears and slobber on her sweater.
Love is resting my head on my lover’s chest, feeling nothing but the rise and fall of her breathing, the softness of her skin, the beating of her heart. Love is watching her run toward me grinning, and catching her as she leaps toward me with full confidence that I would never let her fall. Love is holding her close as she curls up in my arms, feeling her breath on my neck and her fingertips running gently up and down my arms, getting lost in the curls of her hair, and just barely brushing against her cheeks with my lips.