Does the World Break? Or Fold?
Spring was here, but I remained too passive. I felt it in my eyes that were tired only from staring at whatever Netflix said was 'for me'. My finger would tap and then my brain would forget. I needed to feel something in a five senses way. A physical book could be a start. The lightness of the pages. The heaviness of them all tied together in story. I searched through 'my list' until I had matched a series, Shadow and Bone, with a book.
After I started reading, I realized that I had written the same kind of story, except that in her Grisha series, Leigh Bardugo* chose to 'fold' the world, and I had elected to 'break' it. Still, an interesting question. Does the world break? Or fold?
When I need to reflect, I require space and a new recipe. I chose macarons, a fragile cookie capable of both breaking and folding. To limit my new ingredients, I selected an apple pie version*. Does the world break? Or fold? My response to this question came out in poetry.
--
Does the World Break? Or Fold?
Ripped. Pulled. Turned.
Bodies can do both.
Bone and muscle.
Connection. Pain. Impact.
Bodies cause both.
Does the? Could the. . .
World break.
Or fold.
Like pages
Like stories
An answer.
Or,
An ending
To my question.
Does the? Could the. . .
World break.
Or fold.
Like hands
Like tongues
Conserve. Save.
When mixed with water,
Or denied it,
Flour and dirt
Remember.
Scar.
Guard. Keep.
Different words
Mean different ways
Of saving.
Crumpled paper
Guards.
Keeps its lines as
Deeply
As stone.
Bodies can do both.
Bodies cause both.
Still, I’m tired
Of nothing
Of being tired
From nothing.
Lured by
Black ink
Burned edges
I remove the Netflix series* from my list.
Muscles stretch over a light touch of pages
I check off ingredients* instead.
Bones brace against the rounded edge of mixing bowls
Powders and liquids.
Earth and water.
Changes. Endings.
From effort
Scraping. Shaping. Beating.
Too dry
Too wet
My world cracks.
Simple
Not done simply
Enough
Not enough
My world sinks inward
Simple
Simply not done
Nothing
In stone.
Does it break?
Perhaps not right away.
But, odds are it will
Unless
My fingertips brush the baked cookie edges.
Each half. One half.
Both halves should match,
Still, always a lesser for the bottom.
My eyes cleave to instructions,
And then, optional notes
A list as long as the recipe itself,
Fillings
Does the world break or fold?
Maybe the answer to my question
Is my own question.
What can I add?
between
The cracks
That break,
The wrinkles
That fold.
Air in the before
Chocolate in the after
Repair from within.
I spread. I smooth. I press,
Ingredients.
Centers.
Fillings.
My world breaks again.
Ripped. Pulled. Turned.
Bodies can do both.
Bone and muscle.
Connection. Pain. Impact.
Bodies cause both.
I taste.
Only sweet.
Does the? Could the. . .
World break.
Or fold.
Yes.
--
Does the world break? Or fold? I connected Bardugo's fiction, the idea of the world breaking or folding, first to the phrase, tikun olam. During the time I spent baking and reflecting, the verb 'to repair', letaken, had reappeared in conversation practice. I looked it up. I learned it again. Except, this time I did not learn the action in isolation, because it intersected with the worldview tikun olam, positive world impact.
It is not uncommon to learn and forget, remember and forget to remember words while learning a language. What struck me by the end of this poem, was the ease at which I, and we, parrot generally accepted phrases or collective action and consistently forget to remember our own individual opportunities in small choices. The macaron recipe is a tangible metaphor to examine this disconnect.
Does the world break or fold? In my novel and Bardugo's series, in the macaron recipe, in real life, the answer is 'yes'. Always. In big and small ways. Sometimes I am the cause. Does the world break or fold? It is an interesting question, a visceral question, but not near as important a question, as 'what happens next?'
