Pagi ini mendung. Namun terang sekali udara. Aka sedang gembira dengan kegiatan barunya. Aku jadi menyadari, bahwa banyak sekali syarat yang disodorkan oleh orang dewasa untuk menjadi riang. Siapa yang akan ditemui, apa yang akan terjadi, bagaimana menyikapi interaksi. Sesuatu yang kucemaskan sendiri. Tapi Aka tidak terlalu ambil pusing. Bermain bola. Itu saja yang penting. Dan cukup itu yang membuat pagi mendung ini jadi penuh sukacita.
Dan secara ajaib kami berhasil melalui libur akhir pekan yang lebih panjang. Ada tangan Tuhan yang menolong kami. Benar-benar tak terduga. Kukira akan serba cemas dengan kelangkaan sumberdaya. Tidak demikian. Karena, Tuhanku itu, Tuhan Yang Mahabaik itu, sudah turun tangan. Banyak takutnya orang dewasa sepertiku ini. Bagaimana jika-bagaimana jika beterbangan membuat pandangan kabur. Padahal kan sederhana saja. Lepaskan. Jalannya akan terbuka kalau kita meminta.
Orang dewasa sepertiku ini ternyata perlu juga mengirim pesan padamu. Tapi ingatan menginterupsi. Kan, engkau sudah pulang. Lalu, katakan pada orang dewasa cemasan sepertiku ini, “Hendak ke mana kualamatkan rindu? Hari yang menakutkan, berita baik yang menyenangkan, atau sekadar mensyukuri hadirmu, kalau bukan padamu?” The salt water comes to wash away the heaviness. Rocking my demeanor into small pieces of long-lost reverie.
Tahun sudah ganti. Tadi malam, saat aku terlelap. Lupa. Namun, pagi tiba dengan rasa kangen yang tajam. Menusuk-nusuk hati, seperti mengamuk. Aku cuma bisa menghidupkan hari-hari saat kamu masih ada. Di kepalaku, kamu sedang tiduran. Lalu ke dapur untuk ambil teh. Teh dulu baru kopi. Karena memang itulah kebiasaan di rumahmu sejak kecil. Lalu nonton atau mengecek ponselmu. Mungkin kamu sedang berusaha menghidupkan mimpi usang yang kalah dihantam kebutuhan keluarga.
Aku juga sibuk. Yoga, meditasi, menulis jurnal. Menyembuhkan diri. Lalu kita ketemu di sela-sela saat-saat itu. Kulihat motor yang biasanya kaugunakan ke stasiun hanya diam di garasi. Sepi yang aneh mulai menyergap nafas. Rindu.
Malam ini aku kembali ke Jember. Berdua dengan Arka lagi. Terbayang sibuk dan juga sepi yang bisa kami tanggung dengan jalan kaki pagi. Atau makan bersama masakanku. Sore ini aku menggoreng tahu bakso, bagian yang paling kuhindari dalam semangkuk bakso malangan. Tapi kalau jadi camilan kering, boleh juga. Sambil dengar Sade The Kiss of Life, aku menahan sakit di perut. Tipikal sakit yang sama jika aku mulai menulis artikelku. Tubuh fisik dan jiwa sedang terhubung, mungkin di saat yang sama jiwaku memanggil namamu. Atau malah sebaliknya, kamu yang sedang membicarakanku di sana? Rasanya lebih menenangkan pilihan kedua.
Dan tahun ini juga diawali oleh perasaan tidak nyaman berada di tubuhku. Obesitas dan afek yang menyertai upaya penurunan bobot senantiasa berbayang rasa benci sehingga berat rasanya berada di dalam pertaruhannya. Sempat terlintas, apakah doktoral jawabannya? Dengan banyak beraktivitas fisik mesti lah bobotku ikut menyusut dengan sendirinya, tanpa ada beban target tertentu. Tapi kan tantangan mental juga akan bertambah. Bisakah?
Semua serpihan pikiran itu muncul dengan berisik. Sementara tubuhku bilang, nanti dulu. Capek sekali. Maka aku tidak memaksa. Aku akan menunggu. Dengan sabar dan penuh rasa hormat, pada tubuh yang dengan gagah menopang diri ini. Saat tubuh minta berdiam dan istirahat, bahkan membaca novel ringan saja memerlukan upaya. Konsentrasi nampaknya kocar-kacir, memilih mengkhianati memahami deretan kalimat di kertas. Sungguh jenaka. Maka, biarlah. Istirahat, semua akan baik saja.
Sayangku, peluk aku lagi. Makan yang lahap. Nanti kita berpegang tangan. Yang erat. Kita bikin waktu beku. Jangan lupa, scratch. Aku rindu. Rindu sekali, ngilu rasanya hati.
This morning, I asked myself why this holiday feels a bit off. I lost my interest in reading. I usually push my phone away during holidays, but this time, I am so invested in beauty content. Maybe a part of me wished that I could conjure up the scene in which I watched TV while my husband was having a lie-down beside me. This feels comforting yet distant. I have no idea what he still thinks of me, and somehow that thought can turn into a devastating, despairing episode.
The urge to intervene on this thought nudges me to grab Cerita-cerita Jakarta, which I haven’t been able to finish during the last holiday. Yusi’s story has captured my long-lost disbelief that fiction can help my tensed muscles relax. It does me good; I continue reading Peter Barry’s book on literary theory (lha, jomplang bener). He included in his book an intensified debate on post-structuralist theory that interrogated the established elitist ways of unveiling the tradition in literary interpretation. Seru juga mantengin para pesohor teori berdebat di awal 80-an. Begitulah kehidupan pada umumnya, apa pun yang bisa diobrolin bisa jadi bahan gontok-gontokan (kognitif dan afektif).
Tidak apa-apa kalau tidak ingin melakukan apa-apa. Berada di rumah saja sudah cukup. Hanya saja, menjadi dewasa memerlukan ketahanan dan pengendalian diri, tidak bisa makan pedas atau goreng-goreng terlalu banyak. Tetap tegar biar pun rumah habis di-make over dan perlu investasi cukup lumayan. Biasa saja. Namanya juga kehidupan. Lalu, kapan bisa bergabung dengan diskusi intelektual para cerdik cendikia? Tunggu saat tepat, ya.
The matter of my health condition is indeed a curious thing. I was having a diarrhea attack, with it came fever, headache, nausea, and of course digestive issues; when I attended an important scholarly meeting I looked forward to. My body was forced to stay in a slow mode after that. Really slow, regardless the pressing to-do list that tickled my whole consciousness. To address the physical protest, I invested my Saturday sleeping as much as my body needed. The aches in my stomach and head, however, are too strong-willed and choose it should be the best time to stay in my body a little longer. Guess what, after spending my morning sleeping more, my appetite says it wants butter bread and coffee. My mind was startled by this sudden command and decided to lecture me not to believe in what my appetite said. I brushed it off a bit and went to boil water for my coffee instead of following the logical rule. I enjoyed my bread and latte to be motivated enough to open my laptop and start preparing for tomorrow’s class with a sense of genuine joy in my heart. And then toilet calls. Voila, the stomachache went away without any trace left. That was curious, wasn’t it? Is the formula ‘coffee + digestive problem = disaster’ still in existence?
Or, rather, is the logical reign gradually shifting to more intuitive moves? It becomes curiouser and curiouser, yea Alice? Down the rabbit hole I am, looking for my time to finally have tea with the Mad Hatter. 🙂
Breathing in the treasured moment of my sacred weekend has never been this fulfilling. Though it is hard for my brain to rest in my long-overdue nap sessions, I still can devour the beauty of these slower days. Deciding to take a morning walk, have breakfast, and sip two cups of coffee, I can finally find a relaxed pace compared to my hectic weekday rush. I opened my laptop only after all the relaxing activities had been ticked successfully. The next weekend morning is for my grocery shopping. I took my son to try a new brunch place with comforting food. The options vary, but, unfortunately, the white sauce isn’t that creamy. After such a fulfilling breakfast, I cooked for lunch, and after dozing off for several minutes, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Since the afternoon rain comes, my ‘gercep’ response forces me to shut my kitchen window for fear of being drenched in the sky water. Trying to get my nap back, but failed, so I played Durand Jones & The Indications. Such a vibe! While preparing for tomorrow’s class, I enjoy the musical stage of my late afternoon. Plus, my packages arrived earlier before my trip to Surabaya. Yay!
There will be another week to roll. Let’s do this. I can feel it in my body. My time has come to shine. By investing in my well-being, I stand firmer since I take extra careful care of my roots. A new chapter is opening for me. Bismillah. Thank you good food. Thank you good music. The vibe is vibing. *wink*
This weekend, I chose not to doomscroll by returning to my books. I have been kind of restless since moving into my new house, and the familiar comfort from doomscrolling created a kind of fake peacefulness, making my dream, if not weird, full of scary stuff scattered around. And I tried to slow things down by reading. I finished 2 books of essay collection, one written by an academician from Malang, and the other was by Dhianita Kusuma Pertiwi.
I also revisit my reading of another essay collection entitled The Weird Sister Collection, in which I can read what women writers have to offer regarding their personal experiences with their creative forces and criticism of pop culture products. It creates a safe space where I can finally be with my thoughts without being distracted by the noisy social media posts that lurk and tempt me to buy things I want but actually don’t need. Ari Ambarwati wrote in her book that adults’ interest in revisiting the world of wonders in children’s literature is a radical way to defy the repetitive to-do list and lack of imagination that often plague adults. Though I am not in agreement with all of her propositions that seemed to oversimplify what is categorized as children’s literature, I still find a fresh perspective to have a new children’s lit hunt journey.
Written in a different style, Dhianita’s essays asked me not only to follow her thoughts but to reflect on what a kitchen symbolizes in women’s lives. Her book combined not only critical essays showcasing her critical reading of literary works written by women writers, but also a short story that has a bridging connection with the topic put under scrutiny. I enjoyed her book so much, my memory runs wild to the year circa 2016-2018, when the most sacred space for me as a new mom was the kitchen. After graduating from a master’s degree program in India, I went home completely plucked from labels that help shape my identity. I remember finding solace in baking as my financial independence was not solely mine because I only worked as a part-time university instructor at that time. My mom’s kitchen was the only shelter I could transform into a hole-filling attempt to address my existential angst. In her ‘Siapa yang Melawan dari Dapur?’, Dhianita highlighted the artistic choices in the play performance entitled ‘Suara-suara Gelap: dari Ruang Dapur’ as a space to collide with the byproduct of the urban productivity that triggered violence to happen. However, I look at kitchen as a space in which we put a spell on the freshly cooked dishes/baked goods to feed the whole family and sustain them with life. More than that, a kitchen is a space of resisting the fast-paced life of productive laborers out there. When food is produced, the invisible support to strengthen the grip of the capitalist system can be improved. Reading this is an oasis, to finally see my reflection as a helpless being. But writing this, no matter how weak, is my act of looking at the kitchen, not only as a site of resistance but also an inevitable site perpetuating helplessness and internalized voice that no matter how sick and bedridden, women have to get up and cook something to survive life. So confusing, so tight in my chest.
Can Machines Fall in Love is the album that I played after you ‘returned home’, not having any more chance to look at me. It was midnight, we were in a car back home after the burial. To be completely honest, I was exhausted beyond words that the first thing I did when I reached my mum’s home was to fall freely in the slumber. Much needed. Much wanted. Much crushing too, unfortunately. When I woke up, I could no longer meet you, hear your snores, nor hold hands with that was of yours. Nor there will be repetitious questions I would ask you about the glass skin effect of my skin care regime.
And days go by, mercilessly, not caring even a second when all that I want is that the world pauses. My nervous system dysregulation ushered in, taking me to new journeys of pills and reflection. I realized one thing, death is not only a natural process, but also something that can transform, particularly for those affected directly. However, the transformation process is so unique, nobody outside the perimeter, can never grasp. Never. And from this gap, emerge the most silent loneliness. Ever. I understand that as a human being, we need to just rely solely on The Almighty, but the social being in me sometimes needs to also establish the sense of connection too. And sometimes the loneliness can devour me a bit further in the dark. Am I gonna need to look for another direction? Another path? Another space in which belonging can be embraced gleefully. The question will be, where.
And the songs in the album remind me of the temporariness. Like the fleeting nature of everything, I am going to be still. Completely still. Still, bend, but not destroyed. No. Let me sit in this silent stillness: the stillest of still. Until maybe the wind takes a breeze of change. A sweet smelling fragrance.
When I do not know who’s gonna understand the journey I am in, except God the Almighty, of course, I often turn to poetry. Poems are my shelter. When logical language fails to mediate the storm around my head, I seek comfort in the bards’ company. Sometimes, the song is mine, some other time, I can find a poetic blanket, the fluffiest, as a replacement for a hug. Poems and I are engaged as if waiting for the holy matrimony. With me, enjoy this poem’s company. Written by Adele Kenny:
What You See
(After John Everett Millais’s The Somnambulist)
Always the time other than now—she’s deep into being and not (a kind of detached waiting). Balanced inside the shaping edge, she knows more than she needed to know—the loss after each loss that doesn’t go away. It’s come to this: everything measured by watershed moments. Before. After.
In twilight’s ribbed light (like a painting’s textured finish), the distance is twilled with gray, the sagging sky reordered. Her candle sputters in its last bit of tallow. No moon. No stars. She walks deeper into what may or may not be a dream—a deeper mirror, herself inside it.
Apa yang kupikirkan mengenai engkau kini adalah, engkau perlu cinta. Yang banyak. Melingkupi seluruh kesadaranmu. Jikapun engkau mengelak dan mengatakan cinta sudah cukup, aku tetap akan memercayaimu. Biarkan hatiku membagi sedikit cahaya yang mungkin selama ini tertutupi oleh ketakberdayaan tanpa validasi eksternal. Percaya padaku, itu semua hanya ilusi. Sudah, engkau sudah cukup. Aku juga sudah cukup. Bagaimana kalau kita ambil jalan yang berbeda tapi tetap mendukung satu sama lain? Bagaimana kalau energi untuk murka yang sungguh tidak terbendung kusambut dengan cinta. Biar, biar kudekap rasa tebal dan kesal. Nyaman, bukan? Jika saling berbagi cinta kasih berat, setidaknya peluklah diri sendiri. Kelak ada suara senyap yang tiba, seolah turun dari langit, “Kita bisa berbeda tapi tetap saling menjaga.” Biar kubisikkan sesuatu padamu, itulah intuisi. Datang dengan pelan, yakin, dan hadir seutuhnya, sepenuhnya. Memeluk jiwa. Di situlah rumah. As without so within. Semoga semua makhluk berbahagia. Semoga api amarah menjelma aliran cinta yang tak bersudah. Selalu, kudoakan dengan pelan. Pulanglah ke diri, peluk dengan erat duka dan angkara. Rasakan tenang. Di sana rumah.
I had the urge to listen to the 2018 Mary Poppins Returns film’s soundtrack yesterday. It just happened out of the blue. I watched the film years ago. My husband provided the access. At first, I just enjoyed the film as one of the entertaining activities on an evening before bed. However, the urge to revisit the film’s trinketing stuff lurks calmly in a secret space inside my conscious state. Then I listened to it while cooking breakfast this morning. How I was lost in the joy of Royal Doulton Music Hall, and got drowned in tears while grasping the lyric of The Place Where Lost Things Go. I forgot about the plot completely, but after listening to the songs, I was more tempted to rewatch the movie.
Before deciding to watch the movie, I cosplayed as a completely responsible parent: taking care of the house cleaning, cooking, and school driving without having a moment of peace for sipping my coffee or taking a morning walk in nature. I know bypassing my body’s screaming for a pause means betraying my soul’s needs, but duty calls, and the rings refuse to stop. Until I encountered today’s somber news: an online taxi driver was murdered by policemen during the people’s protest in the parliamentary building yesterday. My world crumbled, and I couldn’t hold on to the slightest peace left in me. I stopped whatever I was doing immediately and decided to come home, grabbing the long-overdue Kopi Kenangan Mantan I have been craving since yesterday.
Half-run by my intrusive thoughts to calm my nervous system down, I munched the spicy lime-flavored potato chips. Sipping my coffee, made wrong by the barista as it was sugared despite my no sugar order, I decided to watch Mary Poppins Returns. I initially thought that this was going to waste my time, but this is what an intuitive action may be made manifest in real life. No whisper, no planning, it just goes without instructions. No matter how illogical this might sound, it is, I believe, meant to be.
The Banks family is on the brink of bankruptcy. Their treasured house will be taken over by a greedy man running a banking institution. The children’s mother passed away last year (wait, why?! I know, right?). Everything turned black, dark, and dreary (close to home). Maybe this is how my husband communicated with me. He wanted me to know that my world needs to fall apart before I can embrace new and fancier things in life. The plot is certainly too magical for my own realist life, but I believe that divine interventions have made my life even more enchanting still. I mean, whenever I find it hard to breathe, suddenly, help arrives at my door. It happens so often, making my life’s decent genre fantasy, too, doesn’t it?
Memories you’ve shared Gone for good you feared They’re all around you still Though they’ve disappeared Nothing’s really left Or lost without a trace Nothing’s gone forever Only out of place
nengayuu 