The Fridge Meditation, Of Love and Faith

I open the fridge door; and facing it, I sit on the floor like Buddha.

It is 1:11 in the morning.

I stare at the cartons of juices and milk and bottles of beer and rotting blueberries and persimmons and different treats from different people who traveled places around the world. The truth is, my eyes aren’t moving at all, but that does not discount the fact that I am actually seeing these goods in front of me. I should say, however, that I am really not staring at any of these goods or surveying which ones look well and which ones are taken for granted, if that is at all the intention: I am staring blankly into the layers of spaces confronting me rather peacefully – either at the foreground of my trail of sight or at the depth of the background appearances illuminated by the faint light of this cold, big metal box.

The cold air running from the inside is slowly freed and no sooner have I felt it than realizing that my mind is not functioning as how it is supposed to: like my brain sending my body some signals, telling me I’m hungry or thirsty given that I have not yet eaten anything at all. (But it is not surprising, since my daily waking life revolves around irregular eating habits. My mind, though, is always quick to respond to tell me I am fine, that this is just another ordinary day, another passing time. My tummy does not ramble; ergo, I am not hungry. And I believe in my mind, because how could your mind lie to you?) The cold air, like December breeze, soothes me with indescribable comfort, to the effect that I feel like being summoned to stay absolutely still – just with the dim light, the coldness at this past midnight, and both the real and surreal spaces that disconnect me at times – like this very moment – from the objects of my reality.

                                                                      —–

“I miss you.”

She is looking at me while hearing me saying those words and then immediately puts her attention to the old couple at the park just outside the window where we are seated. I don’t know if she is happy to hear it, or if she feels annoyed, or if she just dismisses it like there’s nothing to it. For a very long time, I haven’t told her how I miss her that is why I have no clue how she takes my words. I also don’t understand myself why I suddenly miss her, which makes me question my very expression and how it registers to her. I’m afraid I’m confusing her – and myself, but that is the truth: I miss you, —.

I’m not sure. I have to assess myself where I’m coming from, where this feeling is coming from. Am I tired or stressed out (oh boy, yes!)? And could it be the reason? Are we not having some quality time lately – just the two of us? Do I like to start to have a family with you, raise kids and all that (somehow, I have entertained this idea seeing my friends having taken this next stage already)?

She always only carries a cheerful face with smiling eyes. That is the only emotion she wants the world to see. I seldom see her sad, lonely, sick, whatever. She is beautiful in and out and it makes me happy. Whenever I see her, I feel like I’m a stronger man. But, somehow, it concerns me, too. It concerns me because I want to see her pain if she is in pain or I want to see her struggling when she is struggling. I want her to know that I am here to carry some weight of the bad things she is going through. That is a necessary condition to reinforce my feelings for her and reveal and express my very nature as a man.

“I love you.”

Then she reaches my right hand with her left, opens it a finger at a time and then zips it close with her left hand.

                                                                      —–

My faith is neither based upon the allegiance to authority nor upon conformity to established belief systems. My faith is based upon my own experiences, the knowledge and wisdom I have gained over the years of my existence. For this reason, who will question my faith that is borne out of my own free will and independent consciousness? My faith follows the realities of freedom, justice, and love. My faith is alive like the beatings of my heart. It does not ask me to believe; it leads me to know. It is discerning and intuitive and, most of all, intelligent.

July 28, 2013

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