Tea in Sweden: I’d Like a Vacation From It All. {poetry}
{Photo credit: Sarah Elkhaldy}
Sometimes I’m too used to friction.
I’ve identified with the trigger for so long that
Sometimes, I don’t know how to not be the gun.
I don’t know how to put myself down.
I’d like a vacation from it all.
I’d like to see Zurich and pretend for a moment that the world
isn’t barely hanging upside down on an invisible thread, and
that I don’t have to hold my breath around it.
And that we’re not suspended in deep space
held in a spell, or that time isn’t unraveling in front of me and
people still believe their TV
This motion is making me queasy
and it’s all getting very awkward.
But I hear the Aurora Borealis is surreal at night,
and that was where heaven and hell fell in love
at first sight.
If I were in my ultimate form, I could project from one spot
to the next,
Except humans here believe in death.
So we all adhere to the sleep world’s rules.
Infinity is beckoning me, and I ask her once more to please
wait. I haven’t seen Nice.
There’s so much beauty here when we want there to be.
We can take anything and see something bigger than
ourselves in it. We can turn anything into our savior.
Our eyes can see a ruby in a pebble.
This is our most beautiful quality: our innocence.
This is our most dangerous quality: our naïveté.
But I don’t think we have to lose our innocence
to step out of naïveté.
The Universe is as cruel as you can imagine,
as cruel as you can let it —
it will pour salt on a snail for the hell of it.
It’s also more magical than you can fathom once you learn
how to ride its sense of humor.
And Infinity is calling me,
I ask her once more, “Please give me two more Earth years. I did what you asked. I understand we had a plan, but you owe me.”
This is a little bit more embarrassing on my end
only because my resume far exceeds the Earth realm.
It’s just that I recently learned how to cook and I have so much
new food to try
and coffee with almondmilk is my new high
and felt autumn leaves in Stockholm I can imagine are bold bright.
I bet their leaves are ripe as fruit, and if I picked one and
crushed it, I can picture how good the strong velvet
would feel in my hands, until my empathy kicks in.
And I’d remember the time I poured salt on a snail and cried the
whole rest of the day at how senseless of an act it all was.
How much power I had over this little creature’s fate.
I don’t want that much power right now.
Right now my ancient eyes want to span the length of Ireland and
compare the dull emerald with the dark jade to admire the
subtle shift of the green shades.
A lesson very few earthlings have learned is that it’s not what
you’re looking at, it’s what you see.
We do it all the time, but we still have not grasped the totality
of what it means.
I have seen what Tragic never told, and what Wish wouldn’t
dream of.
I was there when Primordial Matter thought up original sin,
and voiced it into Creation’s skin.
So now our eyes are detached from our inner sight
Then the messenger gets mistaken for the meaning’s plight.
And now marriage becomes a symbol for permission to unite.
This is the master key to open all the doors: Everything we
take for real is a metaphor.
And Infinity is growing impatient with me.
But right now I’m craving to ignite the waterfalls in Niagara
with my gaze
and activate the Pyramids,
and plunge my neck into the depths of the Atlantic.
I want to mix the sulfur with the sea.
And Infinity is tempting me.
She’s reminding me of all the pleasure she can give me
And all the other galaxies where she can send me.
It’s time to go, that I know.
Because her body is turning and her head will soon follow
So I sigh and heed her.
Except… I’ve never had tea in Sweden.
Although I’m not sure that that matters now…
but perhaps I can petition a detour.
***
Sarah Elkhaldy is a writer, spoken word poet, and energy healer trained in shamanic and holistic healing modalities that address soul loss, trauma, supporting the body in detoxification of chronic stressors and regeneration. She is the administrator of The Alchemist, where she shares esoteric knowledge to help humanity gracefully tap into our evolutionary potential. Sarah hosts retreats and workshops in Los Angeles on alchemy and shadow work. She is the author of How to Set Yourself on Fire, her debut poetry book that acts as a hand-guide to the oldest past time known to our kind: existing. You could contact Sarah via her website.
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