All week we had been searching for locations, but we were hindered by my tired shoulder, and the ever-present heat.
On a drive I spotted a ruin set along the cliffside, above a little beachy cove. The little olive grove attached ran up the sharp angle of the cliff. Close to the road, yet private and invisible from below. This was our spot.
When tying in nature you must adapt. There is no bamboo, no well-worn tatamis or cushions to sit on. The steep slope, irregular rocky ground and thorny vegetation challenge us both. There can be no “planned shape” or “position” or “inspirational photo” that I am trying to recreate – what happens is a direct result of the landscape around us, and the moment we are in.
She stands while I tie her. (She misses being in seiza).
When I attach the tsuri, she lets out a small sigh. (She is enjoying the feeling).
I lift her legs onto my knee, and begin to put the rope around her waist, and under her ass. The position is stressful, the entire tie becoming a predicament for her. (I am enjoying the feeling).
She is sweating. (We are sweating).
Her dress wet with sweat rips as I try to pull it free.
The heat bears down, and tires her faster. (We tire faster)
A drop of sweat rolls off her face.
She gives me her all.
All her energy.
All her sweat and fluids.
All the air in her lungs.
Her legs stretch out, in an attempt to make space for more air, but she suffers for it.
Her toes curl. (Feet are not happy).
“Look at me”. She give me her gaze. (It costs her more air).
This island connects me to my ancestors. The slowness of the land and the heat of the sun. The olives and figs and salty water, the blood that runs in my veins. Now she feels it. Now she shares it too.
We are both tired. (We are both proud).