Wrestling certainty

Why we leave and enter countries.

A man tells me that every time he opens the door of another country he finds shadows waiting. He wants his children to have light. Light for breakfast, light for lunch, light for supper.

When certainty grips you from the front, he says, roll. Let it take you. If you resist it, you’ll hurt yourself. Roll and look up – the blue sky has pinned you with unbearable brightness. You can start again from here. You can take back your life. You just need to concentrate. You just need to learn your body’s relation to the world.

My grandparents walked into this country as newlyweds. My parents walked out again. If you let your body lift too far from the earth, the fight is over. When certainty grips me the second time, I’m ready. My knees are deep in pine needles. My forehead skims cedar bark. It takes two minutes to flip me. “Good,” says my teacher. “Again.” This is his third country.

There is always a last time, we just never know when it is. It is a gamble. Lodgepole pine release their seeds in fire. “It doesn’t matter how small you are,” my teacher insists. “Again.”

The seeds know the whole story. They will risk everything. The baby in your lap knocks over a tower of blocks. She knows you’ll build it again: red-yellow-blue red-yellow-blue.

When we are put back together, sometimes we are placed at the top, then the bottom, then the middle. Each time someone convinces us to saw another window into our doubt, the heady scent of uncertainty rushes in – pink as Spring, exploding. •

“Matchstick” by Maaike VanderMeer. Acrylic and gold leaf on canvas paper.

Today’s lyric essay is dedicated to all those who move, of their own volition or not, between countries. Our entire human history is built off of migration. My own personal story is built on the bones of migration. We need it; we forget it so easily.

If today’s writing sparked something for you, there’s a writing prompt in the chat. It’s a fun one. :) For those of you who are new here; welcome! Every Thursday I send out experimental writing and original art. You can learn why I named my publication after a paradoxical flower here: