Freedom

Freedom, you are
an arbour in the garden, the koel's song,
glistening leaves on banyan trees,
my notebook of poetry, to scribble as I please.
Shamsur Rahman, Shadhinota Tumi

This morning I was feeling a bit crap. You know those mornings.
Anyway, I ended up going to the markets with my folks, just for a bit of a wander. I bought a Bratwurst from the German sausage dude, in German, and had it with echte Zenf. Wicked.
Anyway, I was wandering around, feeling a bit sorry for myself, when I passed one of those massage stalls. I was sniffling (I have allergies and a cold), and the chap at the stall said, "Want me to help those sinuses?"
"I'd love you to," I replied, "but I have no money."
"Nevermind," he said. "Come over anyway."
So he gave me a free 15 min massage, and my utterly fucked-up neck hasn't felt so good in, well, I can't remember when it last felt this good.
But even more importantly, this guy, Eddie the Scotsman, turned out to be one of those angels who says the right thing at just the right time.
I can't remember how we got talking about it, but I think I said I'd had a crazy morning. He could see what I meant. He said some lovely things, about how he could see my heart just shining through, but that I don't believe in myself enough. And he told me I was beautiful and skilful, and we talked about poetry, and my 'crazy morning', and he gave me a hug, and suddenly I was teary in the middle of the fucking farmers' markets because this guy was just so kind.
I tried to give him some money and he wouldn't let me, but he asked me to write him a poem.

So, this blog is to remind me to write a poem for Eddie in gratitude for fixing my sinuses, my neck, this poet's tentative and pulsing heart.