Smoosmic

I just came across something I wrote when I was visiting the Adriatic with my friend and her toddler daughter, Z, my sister and my mother. It was really nice for me to re-read it. For me, it was about Z's delight in life making me appreciate my own life more and also making me think about what I had with the man I have now just married - this was just a month after I met him.

It's quite long, so don't feel you need to read it all. It's also a bit navel-gazey, but I was a bit navel-gazey then, trying to work out what to do with my life and also the kind of man I wanted to be with.

September 2009

Definition: smoosmic (pronounced smooze-mick)

Word used by baby Z instead of music and invariably accompanied by a cheeky smile, a giggle and a wiggle of her bottom.

Time out in a timeless place. The breeze plays its smoosmic through the bright green needles of the pines. Their delicious scent plays an undertone to the melodies of the breeze, made all the sharper in their beauty by the headier scent of the curry plants. The smoosmic in my soul is brought on by the sunshine on this heavenly island and the timelessness of my being.

The smoosmic playing all around me and within me has been joined by a new melody. A melody I first noticed when I was sitting under the fig tree, among the scent of the rotting alcoholic fruit, among the buzzing wasps drinking greedily and soon drunkenly. A melody I first noticed when the golden lion with the ebony mane spoke to me from another world. A world I was in last week, but a world that seems so far away from where I am right now, as I type these words to you. A world that takes half a lifetime to get from and to get back to. A world that he is inhabiting and I am not. Despite us being in different worlds, we sing the same song, the smoosmic in our souls seems the same. He makes me laugh. All the fears and anxieties of a few weeks ago have disappeared totally. My heart is open to the smoosmic. My heart is open to laughter. My heart is open to feeling without analysis, without thought. My head – right now – is not ruling my heart. I wonder if this is difficult for you to believe. It is difficult for me to believe. Knowing the extent and detail of my thoughts, believing that I can open my heart without analysis, without thought, might seem impossible. And it is in the realest sense. Of course I think and I wonder when I am on my own, but when we speak, the smoosmic we create stops thought and I live in the present moment. Freedom is being in the present moment.

Today, everything I did was in this freedom, with the smoosmic in my soul. The huge butterfly, brown, red and white. The huge tame butterfly that landed on my hands, drank water from between my fingers. His feet sticky to help them grip. His tongue extended to drink deeply. The butterfly that kept returning and stayed with us, allowing us to feed him. According to my Mama he flew over from Africa, so no wonder he was thirsty. Clambering into the sea among the enormous waves, half going in once, half going in twice and finally going in a third time before I could bear to let the cold water wash over me. Finally, in the water, flying up and down on the waves, the water stroking my skin and filling my eyes and mouth with its saltiness. Feeling my body crash into the rocks as I try to get out of the water and feeling the sharp pain on my right shin. A reminder of the fragility of my life. A reminder I am not immortal, no matter how often I might think I am. The white feather stuck in my sarong. The white feather floating on the breeze. The white feather that somehow felt like a sign, but of what, I don’t know. Walking back along the coastal path, the sun hot on my face, my heart and my soul singing with the smoosmic. The golden lion with the ebony mane padding softly around the periphery of my mind, reminding me of all that is good, surrounding me with his golden light.

I can no longer remember what we spoke about walking back from swimming, but I remember laughing, the smoosmic lifting our hearts.

Sitting back at home after dinner. Sitting back at home with our mugs of tea. I am typing. My Mama’s voice drifts into my awareness. She is talking about her penchant for Farley’s Rusks, the boring bland biscuits we ate as babies. My friend has offered us Z’s baby biscuits. The tiny animal-shaped biscuits that are sweetened by apple juice. The tiny animal-shaped biscuits that we dip into our tea. My typing is interrupted again by the squawk of cat calls outside. I hear my Mama talking about the promiscuous cats that they are. I hear laughter. I hear my Mama talking about the full moon. The moon that has apparently now been full for four days. I hear them talking about how sweet and adorable Z is. I tell them that I created a monster by encouraging her to sweep ants out of the yard. I tell them of her delight at finding more ants and sweeping them away. I tell them that I started to feel guilty and tried to tell her to be gentle, not to kill them, just to sweep them out. I hear my Mama talking about the little flying ants she once found in her bed, above her bed. The ants that stopped her sleeping. She talks about the hearth crickets that made gentle, delicate cricket calls like they were chattering away to her. She talks about the glow worm she found last month. The beauty of its nighttime iridescence. The laughter of four women sitting in a room together with tea, eating a toddler’s biscuits. One reading. One typing. One falling asleep. One chatting. One chatting and occasionally obtaining a response from one of the other three. Smoosmic is being played.

Smoosmic is not just music. Smoosmic is something more. Smoosmic is something that lifts our hearts and souls. Smoosmic makes us smile and opens our hearts. Smoosmic makes us appreciate the present moment. Smoosmic is the present moment. Smoosmic is love.