7. Aloha revisited

Enter the room, aloha. Leave the room, aloha.

I usually have a quiet hour each day before anyone else gets up, if you ignore the fogginess of getting out of bed that walks with me as I fumble my way downstairs, and if you discount the clamouring of Scallywag (remember him?) to get outside (so that he can get back inside for breakfast, aloha).

And so, for the last couple of mornings, I’ve been attempting to aloha every space in the house as I move around it.

It’s challenging. First of all, I don’t have time if I move at normal speed, so I have to slow down. But speed is generated by thought: I want tea, zooom! and I’m in the kitchen before I notice.

It’s the transitional spaces that miss out: landing, stairs, hallway, space by the backdoor (that’s Scally’s fault, he won’t allow me pause). Make the tea, wake up eldest daughter – that’s six spaces to move through, but only one goodbye and one hello.

Must. slow. down.

So I do. And what happens?

This body awakens from its deep slumber, the one that tastes like rush. The one that presses for action beyond the speed of thought. Instead, a stretching out occurs, of time and of body.

I learn that my state of being – which has always been framed as the way I am – is forwards. I learn that, by saying goodbye over my departing shoulder (I haven’t turned to face the room when saying farewell yet), I have a back. I mean, I know I have a back – I can sort of see it in the mirror; I lean it against my desk chair; I lengthen it when requiring resolve. Saying goodbye gives me the sensation of my back though. Suddenly it opens to the room I’m quitting and there is a momentary mingling with the space. The farewell becomes a touch, a stroke, an exchange.

As I slow down and move through the house this way, my back chooses to stay open a bit longer, and the spaces become active – they communicate with me. As I approach a threshold, there is already a goodbye-ing between back and room prior to the words slipping out of my mouth.

I am balanced momentarily by the departing space at my back and the arriving space at my front. I am expanded by these two rooms. They come alive – no longer empty vessels for the things I notice, need, or want – they have their own sensations that they are willing to share with me.