And so somewhere in between deciding things weren’t working, wrangling with the format and the template, thinking if those things shifted, how the words would make themselves more audible, move their way out towards the eyes and up to the ears of those for whom they were meant, I was brainstorming.
My email about how I decided I needed to switch my focus because I just didn’t think it was working, and “oh, will that be ok?” because I really just wanted time to write poetry, and fall back in love with words, and not have to notice the self questioning coming up around a project that was both so old, and still so young. One that might be headed for the seas of shipwreck and the flounder of failure.
Somewhere in between, I opened my apartment window. Misty fog of a purplish night sky a moist backdrop to sleeping city buildings. And just as I started to get annoyed at the cars and the horns and the street noise outside, feeling it all just too much for my two small hands to hold I paused, and I breathed in the cool air of late September at 11:06 pm as an unwavering streetlamp caught my eye, tucked behind a lit silhouette of green leaves and nighttime shadows. And I thought to myself: “What if this were Paris?”
How I then would find the noise and the space and the closeness of the streets romantic. And mysterious and promising in what they had to teach me. All the things I didn’t know yet.
That way foreign cities exist: intriguing and unfamiliar, open and new and full of gently reigned-in expansiveness. Where possibility replaces boredom and curiosity slows your fumbling steps down enough to make them less careless. Where stepping barefoot into jeans and anointing oneself in a white tee shirt feels holy again.
I remembered what it felt like to let a place land on you-the way it makes your skin more breathable.
While exploration becomes adult-like and competent, and not knowing becomes acceptable. With space around it and inside of you that is not yet fully finished. Not yet boxed in by your self-defined outline, thinking you are merely the sum of all your paradoxical parts. You wanted certainty-funny how that also starts to interrupt your freedom.
So instead, let’s be travelers.
Referring to maps, or content to make our own way. As if we too held the same depth of cobblestone streets and charmingly ethereal, otherworldly secrets of the places that we meet. From both a short and a long time ago.
Let’s open back up to wonder with eyes wide like saucers, fingers reaching-ready to receive, and lips gently parted, able to drink in life’s medicinal moments.