A second and a few minutes

My eyebrows pulled together, eyes squinting with annoyance at the sun hitting my face through the open bus window. I was wearing a turtleneck. The feeling rose instantly, habitually, but before it had a chance to stick, I paused for a second and thought, what if I didn’t?

What if I didn’t reflexively move out of the sun? What if I let it cook my face until I could picture my cheeks turning red? What if I enjoyed the minutes before the discomfort and sweat made me forget the minutes before? What if I just observed the feelings that surfaced before projecting onto them?

I enjoyed it, then stopped enjoying it.

I flinch at the sun because I’ve learned to avoid it. The women in my family avoid the sun to keep their skin from aging and darkening and getting spotty. This pattern of avoiding anything threatening to preserve and prevent runs very deep and broad. The urgency I used to feel around needing to heal patterns like this is gone.

Something happened last year that caused a shift internally. The unfolding since has been disorienting and extraordinary. Putting a name to it doesn’t feel important anymore. All I know is that things I once identified with I don’t want to touch anymore. It is incredibly difficult to tolerate bullshit and drama. I care even more about truth. I care even less about where I’m supposed to be in life.

Linda Ma was always a mask.

I slept so much and felt suspended a lot of the time. I’d love to go back to sleep. Except I can’t. Some days everything makes sense. Other days I’m back floating in the void. I feel ancient and two years old.

On this ordinary day, when I chose to pause and change my response, I caught a glimpse of what it was all for. The warmth on my skin felt warmer, like my skin was able to absorb more. The breeze had more texture. A second and a few minutes was all it was. I smiled at the passing Danube.