Two-in-One Exercise

8 thoughts on “Two-in-One Exercise”

1. My mother came to this country when she was sixteen, her mother ailing and her brother left behind. She is the toughest woman I know, but that wasn’t something she chose for herself. To thrive in this country, she could never bend, for fear she would break. We have always fought, for as long as I can remember. I am just as headstrong, and when angered, I burn just as bright. It’s hard for me to apologize, but her pride makes it impossible. And so my mother has always chosen to give her apologies in the tradition of immigrant parents everywhere, in the form of delicious fruits cut up on a plate. But such a precarious apology necessitates a precarious peace.

   I remember so clearly this moment—this singular moment as we stood where my grandmother had stood, staring down at the steps that descend and then reach up to the sky. The glass on either side of us reflects the blue of the sky and the building melts into the ground as it rises up beside us. It looks different, she says, than how I remember it. Then how it was when she was here. Do you think she would be proud? Despite what I am? I bite my tongue and the questions hang in the air like a loaded gun—one that I hold behind my mother’s back, out of sight. How does this one end? What will we do? Will we fight? Will it end in peaches and promises of love? Or will this finally be what pushes her over the edge—the fight that breaks the love, the ending of all endings? I feel myself bleeding out over this, but I would give all I am if it meant I could keep her love in the end.

2. It’s hard not to want to grab them and spin them in circles when you meet again. Your two sisters, your age, quite literally, by a matter of minutes. But you are older by that matter, and your little sisters will know it– when you were younger you were bossy, a little mean (who are you kidding, you were meaner than you know what to do with now), but now you try and try and try to be comforting, responsible, all things you wanted in the older sister you never had. You pick them up (the exuberance is hard to contain) when you see them. A small reminder that you can help them up.
   A memory appears as the floor creaks, announcing its protest under your collective weight, holding your attention– you can’t resist steeping in the childhood nostalgia of reunion every once in a while.
   You stand in the doorway, wood creaking under your feet. A soft emerald hue emanates from the room, aided by the foliage found outside the windows and the greenery printed on the bed sheets that always smelled acidic and salty, like lemongrass. Like lemon detergent and the ocean you refused to wash off. Your sisters are giggling, fighting over a flash of pink cardboard packaging. You have to investigate. As you jump onto the bed, their hands find tentative agreement, holding the parcel so you can see it– it’s an invisible ink pen, still in the package. As soon as you are able to register what it is, their truce breaks and all of a sudden they are fighting to open it. It tumbles onto the floor, where you pick it up and turn up to face the wooden slats on the underside of the top bunk. The pen seems to move on its own, and all of a sudden you are writing a message to the next person with a black light– evidence one wouldn’t find without any clue to look, but it was evidence no less, evidence of your rebellious glory.

3. “I still want a new kitchen,” Dad says adamantly. The whole world can feel Momma’s eyes roll with utter annoyance as she thinks through their conversation every time they cook together. *That means all new everything, more importantly paying for everything.* *Where would we go during demos?* *Most of the appliances are still perfectly fine.* She pauses not to start an argument. Her mind tells her to take a walk. Our hometown is not walkable. Mountains across the valley, and rolling hills as far as you can see all along Park City. We moved here because it’s a ski town, wanting a second home since we all started skiing at a young age. In the beginning, our attention and focus were drawn to Main Street, the most stereotypical location that “everyone knows.” Instead, Momma walks the path to the apartment, feeling like her life was finally outside of a construction zone only for Dad to want to go right into a new one.

4. Looking glass exercise and one sentence to 30 yr old me:

   As a looking glass, things are cramped and tight. It is new and unfamiliar, with too many colors around and not enough visibility. A haze lingers in the background, and too much movement sends everything spinning. It is hard to stay upright, and impossible to find a way out.

   Throw yourself into experiences you want to have, caution to the wind in all circumstances.

   Stumbling around, you try to piece together where you are, what has led up to this. Things are cramped and tight. It’s hard, almost impossible to keep your head upright. A haze lingers around your peripheral, and too much movement sends everything spinning. You reach out and your fingers graze a smooth, cold surface. Maybe cement, maybe glass or ice. You couldn’t be sure; you didn’t know where you were. There was a voice in your head, scolding you for your actions. Caution to the wind? What kind of logic is that? You take a few more steps, bumping into something in your way. A chair, but perhaps too big to be a chair. It is hard to stay upright, and inconceivable to even try to find a way out. It starts quietly, unnoticed. The sound of groaning metal behind you, like someone forcing open a door that had rusted shut ages ago. A pained glance behind your shoulder tells you that’s exactly what’s going on. Through the dim, cold light, you think you see the end of the hallway, a door propped open. You think you see a person, a shadow. You think you see it moving. It’s moving too fast. The metal hasn’t stopped making noise, groans turning to wails turning screeches turning to an all consuming roar and you raise your hands to your ears and you start to keel over. The figure is moving, moving and it won’t stop moving but it’s not moving towards you. It’s shifting and morphing and becoming something else but every time it contorts it becomes easier for you to focus, just barely. That thing keeps moving and I don’t know what to do because it looks like me but it’s not me, and the more it shifts the more we look the same, like siblings, like twins, like a duplicate that I can touch so I reach out and I touch it and it reaches out and touches me back but it’s cold and smooth and it copies each movement that I take and we both pull back our fists and we swing them forward and the mirror shatters and my hand hurts but it’s finally quiet and I close my eyes because I won.

5. People. As far as my eye could see, all I spotted were people, or to be more specific, the heads of human beings. Blondes, brunettes, gingers, and almost every hair color were represented in the airport crowds. For example, the tall, young blonde man sitting adjacent to me was definitely a musician. He had the plug-in wire earphones (Not Airpods, like others from his generation), and was on the GarageBand app, humming along and tapping his fingers against his notebook and then randomly stopping. My guess? He was trying to figure out instrumentations for his next track, coming soon to a streaming platform of your choice.
   Fingers tapping the table. He was tapping his foot constantly. It was my friend, Bobby, sitting on my other side. We were going to Mexico for Spring Break. Our larger friend group had dispersed to buy food. He had about an hour to go before he had to turn in this assignment. Our flight boarded in 35 minutes. Yet, he still remained unsure. He was jittery, biting his nails now. He knew he had to turn it. Bobby’s advisor had told him that too. “The proposal is fine, son”. Those had been Professor Clark’s words. “How could he be so sure though?”, Bobby thought. 40 minutes to go before the deadline. 15 minutes before we got on this plane to go to Cabo. Bobby just couldn’t bring himself to turn this thesis proposal in. Not yet. His father called. “Bobby, turn it in, and get on that plane, son. You deserve it.” The flight was boarding now. Our group was going to be called next. He looked at me, and I smiled in encouragement. It was finally time.

6. It’s midnight and the plane is on the runway. A quick announcement blares overhead before the plane takes off with a jolt. She’s going off to college, yet the only thing on her mind are the I-love-you’s that should have been said, the hugs that could have been given, and the mistakes that needed to be forgiven. She watches the once tall and imposing mountains retreat and become smaller before her very eyes, as if suddenly shy and demure. Leaving home is never easy, but she didn’t expect it to be so hard to do alone.

   Three months later, and all she’s been able to do is work, work, and work. It’s late at night, she doesn’t even want to know what time it is. She’s locked in her room and feeling out of place, wondering what she’s doing over 2000 miles away from home. The window, cracked open just enough to allow a gust of ice-cold wind blow inside, rattles and whistles ferociously. Goosebumps prickle her skin, she is shivering. The puffy comforter to her left wordlessly beckons her, and in a moment of respite, she ignores the work sitting in front of her and instead ducks under the covers. Burrowed comfortably in a fluffy, white cocoon, she feels the shivers leave her body, replaced by an everlasting warmth. For now, she is home again.

7. With a slash of my bow, my body is under someone else’s control. I no longer own it; the music does. My fingers have recognized where they should be without looking at the music sheets. Oh, the marvels of muscle memory. My foot, a natural metronome, keeps count of the time signature. My upper body sways with the traditional sounds emitted from the violin, feeling the music resonate throughout my body.

   I envision myself upon a stage, a traje with little metal beads that cling to my every move. This art, this form of being, connects me to my roots. I envision the mountains, the trees, and the cricket’s song. The birds chirping in conversation with each other while a rooster has perched itself on wooden posts and sings. Metal wires with spikes wrap around the wooden posts, creating a fence to fend off cows, goats, and horses. This is what it is—a tie to my family, a tie to my other home.

8. Do you think flowers like music?

   With the speaker at full volume as I clean the kitchen and living room. Taking singing breaks whenever one of favorite songs pop up and using the broom as a microphone. I look at mom’s plants and wonder if they need water. As I go over to see if the soil is dry, the most random thought pops up in my mind; Do they like my music? Obviously they like the music I play, I always mix my music up, so it doesn’t get boring. Maybe my playlist is helping them grow. They say talking to your plants is beneficial, but I say music is the secret to a green thumb.