Beyond the Agony and the Ecstasy

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They talk about broken hearts like they’re a bad thing; like they’re only something that can happen in a romantic relationship. I have found neither to be true.

Instead, I have found my heart breaking over and over again, having little to do with romance at all, and everything to do with finding myself with a deeper capacity to feel inside my broken heart than I ever did when I thought my heart to be whole. Whole, or, perhaps more accurately, wholly closed.

There’s another word that we’re missing in this language, invisible audience. It is the word for whatever lies beyond the limits of agony and ecstasy, when suddenly you find that your heart has split nearly in half. It is like fresh road rash exposed to the air: it hurts more than you can imagine to allow oxygen to brush against it, never mind anything tactile. It hurts that it is open to air, and it also hurts to know that air is what will make it heal the fastest and with the least amount of scar tissue.

In the case of emotional road rash, it’s not actually pain. It’s something else. It’s not love; it’s not hate. It’s closer to grief, hangs next to anguish, but also near to the ecstasy that comes from deep passion, connection – orgasm, even. It rides a tightrope between agony and ecstasy and feels like a delicious terrible concoction of both at 100% potency.

It, well, it feels far more than anything else, and that is what it is. It could feel like pain, but it also feels like change. It’s scary, messy, causes tears to well up and overflow, and an ache in the chest. It is a deep unnamed feeling that leaves everything beyond and outside of it pale in comparison.

What is it? It is heartbreak. It is the nerves exposed to air, measuring the humidity, the heat, a better barometer than anything manmade, and it is also completely inexplicable, try as I might to explain.

Oftentimes, in a moment of profound pleasure, be it sexual, emotional or physical, I find that a lump appears in my throat and my chest begins to ache. It is not pain, necessarily, but it is certainly not all pleasant. Instead, I think, it must be the feeling of my heart expanding: cracking open over and over again, each crack creating more space, more room, more heart.

And that is where I find myself this week, invisible audience. I am heartbroken, in a way that causes me to weep openly, to shy away from touch as if it burns on the nerves laid bare within my skin, although the wound is invisible. It feels as if the bandages I have wrapped around myself are unraveling, and my pores are drinking in the air as if they have been starving and deprived.

Although there is pleasure in this feeling, there is also a lot of pain. Although it is growth, it is also a shrinking of an old self; a withering of old ideas as new ones burst forth to grow something wild and different.

I can’t say it hurts, but it sure as fuck doesn’t feel good. I suppose that all I can say is that it feels, invisible audience, in a way, a depth and a mixture of burning hot and icy cold that it has never felt before.

Though it is near impossible to explain without having the word, it is there nonetheless, like a scar peeling away from the inside of the skin, finally allowing the air to come in, the lungs to fill to capacity, and the world to burst into vibrant, violent color before my eyes.

Nothing in the world has changed, except me. And in me, everything is different.

Love and ecstatic agonized kisses

Morgan

I Am Here. Here I Am.

Although when I first bought my ticket I didn’t have a specific place in mind, by the time I landed in Panama City I had figured it out. The destination was a property on Isla Pastor, an island made up of solely private property in the Bocas del Toro archipelago on the Caribbean Sea. Maya Point is owned by a man from Portland, OR who is currently sailing around the world on his boat. He advertised to have someone come live in his house, built of native hardwood and perched on a ridge at the northwest end of the island, above a coral reef. In exchange for keeping the termites from taking over the house and maintaining a presence, the lucky candidate would be able to enjoy the solar-powered two-bedroom house, with a rainwater water system. The rest of the property is cocoa plantation, jungle and a smattering of other fruit trees: star fruit, mango, grapefruit, lime and banana.

The website about the property said that there would be an opportunity to pick the cocoa and sell it wholesale, either at the local co-op or somewhere else, presumably for more money if one could find a buyer. It turns out that is easier said than done. Omar, the man who works the property, has been doing his best to maintain the 13 acres by himself, but his hours are not sufficient for him to pick the cocoa and it has been rotting on the trees. What is left is riddled with insect stings and fungus.

Before I arrived, I had aspirations of being a fledgling cocoa farmer. In fact, the property’s owner told me that my experience growing up with fruit trees (cocoa grows on a tree, like an apple) was part of the reason he thought I was a good candidate. Although I knew it was likely it would be harder than it looked, the blow of looking at dilapidated cocoa trees, their pods shrunken and rotting or furry with mold, hit me a little deeper than I expected. Also with that came the knowledge that any seeds planted in the nicely laid out garden would most likely be eaten by leaf cutter ants before they had a chance to grow.

And yet, I sit on the deck, overlooking the Caribbean Sea and surrounded by lush green islands in blue water. Apart from early morning and early evening, when the no-see-ums appear and make it impossible to be outside, there is a breeze that blows across the deck, and I have already sat for hours, writing page after page of my book without realizing that time has passed at all. It seems to be a blessing in disguise: although I will do my best, I have been reminded yet again of why I am really here. It was not cocoa that brought me to Panama, it was needing the space to write a book.

Although I told the owner I wanted time to consider staying, the truth is I am already falling in love. Any time I begin to panic, tire or need a moment to gather my thoughts, I walk down to the dock, set the ladder in the water and push off onto the reef. The water is shallow, so I float a mere 1 to 2 feet above the coral, the fish darting away under me, the sunlight creating waves of light as it reflects off the water’s surface. With each day that I spend here, I am more relaxed, more thankful, and more able to hear myself think.

There is no one here besides me, Sapa the dog, Doc, the 70-year-old man who lives at the end of the dock above the cabana, and Omar, who works in the mornings five days a week. Most of my time I spend alone.

Alone: that is an answer to your unspoken question, invisible audience, and also the answer to the question that many, many people have asked aloud, both before I left and on my journey here.

I am alone, and yet my thoughts, emotions and writing fill every empty crevice and space around me. Contrary to what many think, I am not here to escape, I am here to discover.

I recently had an essay published about a meal I made for my ex-boyfriend and his household when some of their friends were killed in an avalanche last February. I gave my ex a heads up when I confirmed it was going to be published; he was excited for me, and all he asked for was to get the recipe in advance. When the article came out, I got a message from a friend with a link to the post. It said, “So you wrote about your ex, it got published and now you are hiding in Panama? This is great writing Morgan Fraser.” 

Well, invisible audience, that’s the end of it. I should have done it long ago, but here is the official throwing in the towel. I give up. I give up trying to make my choices understood, especially by people who have known me for years.

They are all here with me: my problems, my insecurities, my fears. They stand beside me while I eat, swim and sleep. They are with me when I read articles I don’t agree with, and only back away when I discover something that assures me that my actions are not crazy, that following my heart could actually be the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. I am not here to outrun my problems, and it was never my intent to do so. Instead, I have found a quiet island where I can call them to me, one by one. I can size them up, examine them, and figure out whether or not they have any legs to stand on. If they don’t, then I can dismiss them once and for all. If they do, well then, they stick around until I figure out what to do with them. I study them to see how they have shaped my past decisions and whether they should have any impact on my future plans. If it makes sense, I fold them into the book I am writing, the one I have yearned to write for years, the one that I came down here to bring to fruition.

Yes, by leaving the country I left certain people. I am now able to physically stand apart from those who made me doubt myself, those who didn’t even realize that they had their own agendas for me, and those that, like my friend, think I am escaping. By stepping away, I have put distance between them and me. By arriving here, I have created a space bubble that I can invite others into instead: people who support my decisions, who value my need for space, and who understand that often the problems most worth looking into are the ones that will take all your energy to explore.

I am here to write a book. I am also here to remember who I am, all of me: the angry, emotional, loving, kind, sensitive human being that has managed to walk this planet for 31 years without dying of hunger or thirst because of my choices. I have always made it; I have always believed I could. It is not for anyone else to question my sanity, but it is also my responsibility to not let their questioning become my own questioning, either.

I am closing the door now. If that is escaping, then consider me gone.

Love and discovered kisses
Morgan

May the gods of irony smile upon you

Why, oh why does irony play such an essential role in our lives? Why am I always stuck next to a boring middle-aged woman or old man or families on airplane rides? Or rather, why does it always happen except for this once? This was the one time I forewent any attempt to look presentable and wore a 6-year-old purple T-shirt, my glasses, scraggly uncared-for and uncut hair, having been in airports or on planes all day, fresh from New Orleans with a rattling cough that makes people back away slowly and a gushing runny nose. Why does all this happen to me when I am sharing my row on a seven-hour flight to London with an attractive, probably single 20-something with a book and a water bottle, just like me? Why did he have to walk in and sit down right as I stuffed the last of a chocolate chip cookie in my mouth, just in time to hear my rasping attempt to swallow with a plugged up nose that made me feel like I was trying to breathe through wet cotton? Oh God of attractiveness and perfect timing, WHY do you forsake me?
I tried to come up with something to say to the-man-I-would-have-married-if-I-had-only-planned-better to save face, but my ideas seemed as addled as my congested sinuses. I picked through possible conversation topics in my head:
“Gee, this pressurized weather sure is great, isn’t it?”
“Well, if you need any Kleenex, I’ve got some, har har.”
“Want some hand sanitizer? It’ll keep you from getting my cold.”
“Want some Tylenol PM? That way I won’t be the only one who sleeps through my needing to blow my nose.”
But it was useless. He’d already seen me unpack my arsenal of medication, water, chocolate, sappy Western romance novel and a toilet paper roll I would inevitably use up on my nose before the flight was over. To prove my point, he got up and moved. Only across the aisle, mind you, where he could spread out and sleep on four empty middle seats. But it’s obvious why he really left, I thought forlornly, and I couldn’t really blame him. I wouldn’t want to sit next to me either.