black ice and winter light - calm interrupted
masha and i once spent a beautiful winter’s day up at my father’s cabin in the mountains surrounding ulaanbaatar. we escaped the smog of the city, exchanging it for the smoke of a fireplace and a view above the thin clouds.
i don’t remember much of what we did that day - definitely not losing ourselves in bed, because that wasn’t the kind of relationship we had. we probably walked along the ridges by the forest, cold air numbing our red cheeks and returning out to the winter through our breath.
still, i can remember other winter days there - a small white sun gently blasting immeasurable light, giving definition to the valley below. from the balcony we could make out thin pine branches, jagged clumps of frozen snow between pale-brown rocks - black-blue mountains miles away.
and the quiet. the heavy tap-tap of a woodpecker in the nearby forest. soft crunches of a deer leaping through the snow.
cold twilight over the mountains by the cabin
it was the journey back i remember most of that day. in the nearby village, masha insisted on driving, though she didn’t have her licence and little practice.
she jumped in the driver’s seat and i gave directions. as we drove down one frozen street, i saw black ice ahead. i told her to gently apply pressure to the brake.
but she panicked, slamming to a near stop. i put my hand on the upper handle - ‘and now we’re going to crash,’ a flat declaration.
the car slid round and round while masha and i waited for the worst - we came to a stop inches from a tall wooden fence.
as i took over driving, she commented how calm i had been.
it wasn’t calm, but my alexithymia - my inability to feel deeply.
back then, i could put pen to paper and write for hours uninterrupted. the writing lacked soul. it was a jumble of thoughts and emotions - completely forced with the intention of eliciting a response from the reader - usually anger or exasperation.
and now, with peaceful mornings, like these, i allow myself to feel. i allow myself to write for no one but myself.
i don’t pick a subject and write it - i wait for inspiration to surface in the calm of the mornings i’ve found for myself.
the crystalline calm of those sunny winter days in the mountains.