Tag Archives: love

The Void

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Written by Jordannah Elizabeth Graham

Last night, I sat alone at the bar in Tagliata, a high-end Italian restaurant in a wealthy downtown waterside district in Baltimore, Maryland called Harbor East. I had everything and nothing on my mind. 

Twenty minutes before I settled on where I would eat dinner, I had a drink and caught a few minutes of the Orioles game at Bar One, an expensive Black creole-inspired restaurant a few blocks away Tagliata. From there, I walked down a paradisial pier, clearing my mind long enough to gaze at the stunning orange and pink sunset that gleamed magnificently above me while well-to-do patrons of all backgrounds sat at tables outside of the strip of various portals of culinary decadence.  

To me, the people looked like cardboard characters in the diorama of my reality. I had gone to the pier emotionally condensed, wanting to decompress and relieve the tightness of my Third Eye and fill an inner Void that sat deep within me. The Void sits in anticipation, waiting for me to fill it with moments of self-reflection and inward adoration. The Void is patient. It has no awareness of external forces: the stresses, pressures, and the complexities of the material world. It simply waits for me. I just become more aware of it on certain days, as it softly nudges me like a drowsy elderly Saint Barnard who hopes to rest its large chin and snout on your lap. 

The Void waits for the days when I become lost in the plotlines that take place on the theatrical stage of existential life and serves as a reminder, quietly telling me, “I’ll wait for you.”

When I settled in at the bar in Tagliata, I felt some relief. I was somehow able to look normal, showing no signs of grief, sadness, or distraction. I could see it in the body language and lack of disturbance in the interactions of the patrons around me. I ordered my food and a glass of Reisling and allowed the tamed liveliness of the room to calm my overwhelm. 

I kept it together until the in-house pianist and lounge singer, who was out of my view, began to play Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb”. The melodic playing and soft emotion in his voice caused my eyes to well up. 

The feeling of loneliness washed over me, a feeling that I had been denying for a long time as I had many people in my life. But at that bar, with Pink Floyd’s penetrating lyrics playing softly in the corner of the room, I released. I dabbed the bottom lids of my eyes and covertly checked my knuckles to make sure my eyeliner had not been smudged.  

A friend of mine passed away a couple of days earlier and everyone in my life had been so wrapped up in what I was and wasn’t doing, how I was affecting them, I had no room to tell anyone what was going on with me.

I was maintaining an extremely demanding career, my mother had just survived breast cancer, and I was also still grieving my father, who died two years before. I had no room to talk about anything. Everyone had been behaving so selfishly that all I could do was feed myself an expensive dinner alone, knowing that no one had any idea that I had a life. I had needs and emotions that had nothing to do with what was going on with the immediacy of those who were in close proximity to me. 

And I felt like one wanted to know. 

If it didn’t have anything to do with me doing some form of labor or how I was behaving, who I was offending, or being constantly reminded that I was not in a relationship, there was no room for me to just be.

The feeling of loneliness proceeded to haunt me during my Uber ride home and on into bedtime. 

This morning, I woke up and played “Comfortably Numb” while I was in the shower and sang along, feeling back to myself. It doesn’t take much.  Nonetheless, the Void is always waiting, anticipating me. 

Sundial

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From the new column: Kingdoms and Diamonds about love, marriage, traversals, emotional health and healing.

Had I not learned from him—well, I don’t know who or where I’d be. Probably living in the mountains or near a body of water, becoming more obscure by the moment. Maybe I’d keep writing; maybe I’d finally have time to pick up the guitar. But I can’t avoid the presence of hearts and thoughts, of evil and the destitution of the world. I would have stayed in a safe womb where Charlie, Bobbi, Rolli, and now Button sit.

By the time Button came along, I knew not to drink milk or Pepsi—but kids like what they like. Most of them are picky.

Their father and I are, too.

I sat down to get my life in order—reordered, I guess—a couple of summers ago, and realized I love about fifteen things in the entire world. One of them is travel. But I like what I like, and so do they. Branches of the same tree—his and mine—simple and larger-than-life auras. I want nothing to do with any of it, but he had to become the biggest and the best. I’d have loved him either way, but I love that he encourages me, inspires me to be the very best I can be. Otherwise, I’d have spent my days frequenting farmers’ markets, volunteering, shopping for this and that; staring at a first edition of The Catcher in the Rye, studying whatever intrigued me, walking around with nothing in particular on my mind.

Of course, I always wanted a family.

He had to make sure everyone was themselves, and I guess I seemed—

It doesn’t matter now. We’ve got everything we wanted and a lot of complexities that are truly simple drama—cut-and-dry anxiety from people who are privileged, safe, wealthy, and sometimes find their homes, cars, and daily lives are just enough.

No one is starving. No one is suffering from the love he and I have cultivated—at first sight, at first heartbeat, at first cry.

They think power is supposed to feel like something—that it changes us, or makes us want to hurt or dominate each other.

They don’t understand the healthy balance of love and power.

One of us has something up our sleeve—or both—and no one knows how it will play out. But we are parents, and we love each other.

I didn’t know milk made him sick until our son gave me nausea and sweats. I feel guilty because he has bad bones, and I realized he can’t just take calcium. Me prescribing milk baths—it was all probably vomit-inducing.

‘A’ Concerto

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From the new column: Kingdoms and Diamonds about love, marriage, traversals, emotional health and healing.

There is a concert pianist—too keen-looking for comfort—and they say her fingers are losing their touch. My boys and my husband had to travel to the region anyway, so I asked them to see her perform, to take in some culture.

I’m stuck in a hotel room in Cairo until I get a little scratch to travel to another familial region. Yes, we have plenty of money, but my kids—they don’t want their parents to be “richy-rich.” I understand. He and I both come from middle-class upbringings. We didn’t have much, but we had grade school, and we started our careers early.

I still dream of him at twenty-three. He comes to me that way, even when he’s right next to me—still that young man. Our sons and daughters are spitting images. I suppose neither of us can forget our youth, those purer times.

Suffice it to say, I made it far in my career, and people try to say I am promiscuous. They say terrible things about him, too. I’ve always been devoted to my studies, so it hurts. It feels inescapable. I cross the world, and it seems people follow just to be cruel.

No complaints, I guess. We have a tribe, and an eldest son—a blessing from my previous marriage—who watches out for him. He watches out for me, for our children, for dozens—countless people—who are loyal to him. Lately, I feel I should be watching over him now.

It has been so many years of toil, of care, of observance, of kindness, of tenderness, of thoughtfulness—of asking people to help him keep me safe. Many times, they fail, and it is up to me and him.

Maybe that isn’t entirely true. But those closest have been failing, and here I am, holed up in a hotel room in Cairo, unable to see him drive past because I live in a circular marketplace. I look for him lightly, without expectation. I understand that in a dense city it cannot always be that way—that he arrives late, or in the afternoon, when I need sleep or need to work.

I am happy with my family, though. No one seems to believe it.

No one seems to believe it.