I Am a Gas Station
Work as renewal, creation as light in the night.
JASMININE is never postponed. It happens now.
Reading suggestion: at nearest gas station tonight.
Kitchen
The wall clock in the kitchen read around 11:00. The small minibus to the city passes the village station at 11:40. I just need to dry my hair.
I step out onto the porch. Autumn air, wrapped in soft mist, touches my skin, touches me and, of course… halts me. This femme from the countryside will not enter the city café today.
I return to the kitchen, connect my phone to the Marshall speaker, and play the song Atgriešanās — Homecoming — from the Latvian rock opera Lāčplēsis. Tears want to run. I try to catch every word, but just then my husband Valters enters, straight from his office room.
I can imagine how it looks from the outside — Jasmine fluttering about, maybe dancing, maybe…
Meanwhile, singer Igo’s voice continues, carrying the music and the words of return written by poet Māra Zālīte, back when I had just started school in my homeland, Latvia.
Hide and Seek
On black, cold winter mornings, when I was a little schoolgirl, the bus stopped near the housing blocks of our northern town — but I never took it.
I always walked. Alone, in my mother’s rustling hooded parka.
Slipping through the darkness, down icy streets. Then through the city center or the park — depending on the day — and I arrived.
Entering through the school’s side door, I’d remove my hat. Always half-frozen, so alone — like no one else. But inside — warmth. Where did it come from?
Permission
You once said there was no hope, but I didn’t believe you. I couldn’t. I saw a black-and-white life, grey scenes, everything the same, boxed, repetitive, reproducing. Vomiting. Disgusting to watch — I tell you.
But still, I didn’t believe you. Hope had to exist. Somewhere, sometime. Maybe when the black-and-white world dies? When I allow it to die? Maybe now?
Žvīguļi žvāguļi, bimbuļi bambuļi echo down the road. The worldly circus fades into sacred peace, sacred peace, sacred peace.
Silence, with me. Pulse beneath the skin.
Hope transforms into gratitude for the permission given. To honor and to release.
Work
The clock reads 16:16. I have no strength left to write, yet in one breath I scribble today’s power word on a small note. Work.
I have work again!
It’s a new day, and I realize that the new state of work-consciousness is settling in, gaining strength.
I have work, and I’m already doing it. I allow the doing, release the not-doing — and everything changes.
I have work. My creative JASMININE state. I love being JASMININE — you probably know that by now. JASMININE is my connection to you. The ability to create and care for this connection means, first of all, that I care for myself.
My work reverses the classic model. I have no fixed hours, because I work all the time.
I am like a gas station — a warm, glowing sign on the roadside in the dark night.
When the day’s work ends, night arrives — the work of renewal.
Meanwhile… the pulse beneath the skin quietly pushes up new shoots. Above ground, it’s simple: I return to work.
The Big Off-Screen Story
Mini Creative Workshop
Silence
One minute of silence to feel your pulse beneath the skin.
Voice
Write down one word — your power word right now. Say it out loud, turning silence into voice.
Permission
Make one gesture that symbolizes “release.” (For example, opening your hands, a deep exhale.) Let your power word fly free.
Work
Repeat three times: I have work. Feel that it’s not a burden, but your creativity — like light in the dark night.
Refueling
Write one sentence that stirred within you during this process (for example, “Pulse beneath the skin pushes up shoots”). Or even better — drop your sentence in the comments!
In white on black, straight from the gas station
— JASMININE by Jasmine Monta
Jasmine Monta — writer and ritual artisan. She creates textual spaces where word becomes practice, silence becomes form, and transition becomes life.
