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And then hope leaped up into my heart and echoed down the ivory arching curvature of my ribs.

Four small letters, like an ink map tethered softly along the bone. You know the ones: Born from the flesh of star-stuff and giving rise to the constellations that birthed our bodies, continue to chart our destiny. Fingerprints like quiet steady footprints. Tracking steadily along. Showing the way.

I was

sort of afraid she wasn’t seeing all of me. The way we are so many mercurial pieces all the time, all at once.

The artist, the dreamer, the woman with an ink stained pinky to match a wild forest of hibernating dreams. The ingenue, sometimes the starlet, with things to say and a meaningful existence to do. All the while, a casual observance living inside this jungle place. Concrete city space.

And I wonder sometimes if the gypsy nomads in us would feel completely free, or still somewhat fettered if brought to live in some completely untethered bohemian flowing country to roam under wide open endless skies.

Maybe it is the subtle boundary of our Being that does make a difference.

The existence of other physical counterparts to root us down to the plush earth, let us know where we are in space, make somewhere-anywhere-feel like home.

That “I am because you are” way of being Desmond Tutu notes as one of the feelings of Ubuntu.

All the while, we continue to sojourn the inner and outer worlds. Up, over, around and through. Relief like a waterfall cleansing our insides when things shift, making room again for new things, good things, old earthen things to break through.

Those glimmers of the teenage parts of us that still believe in love and safety and small sleepy towns, the innocence of ourselves, that way it rests in the quiet spaces like the old town paces of suburban green tree-lined streets.