Colors of Twine

The twine challenges me–folding leads to more precise designs, crumpling to a more abstract look. My hands are clammy from the latex residue, the dye sticking to my skin for days, leaving its mark. Each tie-dye pattern is like a fingerprint–unique, original, reflecting its owner. As I douse the individual sections, each color brings up a vast array of feelings, memories, hopes.

Blue. The blue of the bruises from each fall, each DNF. The first time I wiped out in a ski race, mustering the strength to pick myself up and complete the course was even harder than my fall. Riding the lift back up, the cold slipping into the cracks of my jacket, I knew, regardless of how many seconds I shaved off during the second run, I wouldn’t qualify after a DNF (Does Not Finish)—“why risk it?” Then I hear the echoes of my coach, “You can’t be brave unless you’re scared.” When I cross the finish line, I know I didn’t need to redeem myself in others’ eyes, but rather to prove to myself that I could finish both runs. Now, as a coach, I often remember that first fall and the countless ones that followed. I try to teach each new crop of racers that seconds matter, and second chances do too.

Fuschia. The blood flooding my cheeks as I hit that final stance. Music has always been a language I understand, and the counts have always provided a map that guides me to serenity. However, dance has also been a parabola. As a child, dancing was associated with joy. But I was not born with a traditional dancer’s body, so as I matured I became more conscious of that fact, sliding down the steep side of the parabola and hitting the vertex. The mirror, a tool to observe and improve, became my nemesis—the reflection to my right taller, to my left thinner. But I wouldn’t let my fear of looking different stop me from continuing something that made me happy. I double-downed on what I already loved–Latin–as well as perfecting new forms. I honed in on myself and ignored my peripheral, determined to befriend the mirror. Tenaciously, I made my way back up the other side of the parabola, all the while learning to conjure up the courage to allow myself to be seen in a vulnerable state.

Yellow. The yellow stains of cumin on the tattered pages of my family recipe book. “Cuidado,” chuckles my Abuelita whenever we are flipping empanadas in hot oil. “Dikkat!” warns my Dad whenever I lower the mücver into hot oil. …Cooking is the center of gravity for my tight-knit family. Every recipe takes me on a journey to the sights and smells of my mother’s childhood in Colombia or my father’s in Turkey. I learned to braise and blanche from my Dad while simultaneously learning the history and customs of each dish from my grandmothers. I adopt and adapt from both sides of my family and create my own unique blend of flavors, my own unique set of customs. Cooking bridges the gap between Istanbul and Bogotá, and has given me a place in the arc of traditions that precede me.

I cut the twine and unfold the canvas, mesmerized by the beauty and grace of the swirls. I ponder how I, someone who is so at ease with the black and white of equations, has become enamored with the unstructured process and unpredictable outcome of tie-dying. But I see myself in the colors–I am blue, pink, yell0w–if I fall, I get up, if the mirror works against me, I stare back harder, if it tastes bland, I add spice.