The film plays on. A coquettish wind teases the branches of a sententious sycamore tree, convincing it to abandon the cover of its leaves. Vines climb through brick walls, daisies push through in cracks in the sidewalk. My own thoughts begin to nudge their way through the crowd, moving to the front of the room.
The future rises before us, dawn breaking upon a dream. We are so close we can feel the first gentle rays of a golden sun caress our skin. In the distance, music begins to play. The first note of a symphony, a single, open “A”, echoing from across the horizon in a gentle adagio.
Hello, NYC. Some unpublished travel logs from the archives.
Poetry. Whether words flow to the rhythm of flowers or fire, a few phrases unraveling the heart is nothing less than a small act of everyday magic.
“For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.” By embracing the now, we are able to recognize that each experience is a skillfully placed building block in our own metamorphosis.
I’d sooner pull the sun from the horizon and push the moon from the sky than wait for dawn to break. Rather risk the lick of flames from standing too close to the hearth, than wait for the fire to warm the room. Rather pour my emotions uninhibitedly from my heart like spilled ink across a page than wait for the carefully constructed moment to confess them.
Ernest Hemingway once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
While I don’t have a typewriter quite yet, I do carry a moleskine notebook in my purse and jot down verses whenever the mood strikes. Here’s some verses written over the last few weeks.
Poetry with a dose of musical inspiration.
This morning I awoke at dawn to the gentle crashing of waves and the rush of Mexico’s Highway 1 outside my window. In many ways, this place is reminiscent of my hometown; all red tile roofs and palm trees and adobe walls painted white.
Sudden moments of clarity, awaken me from the parallels of home. A reminder that this place is foreign.
Hawaii. The island in the South Pacific feels more like a person than a place. It greets her like an old friend, an aloha, after lifetimes of a hui kaua, until we meet again.
“The aura of the words remain. The intersection of that frostbitten, naive January day. Standing at the crossroads of nostalgia and possibility.
Embracing the notions of the experienced and the impending.”
I left a piece of my heart somewhere again- wandering the through Pike Place Market, steaming cup of spiced rum apple cider in hand, the chill of the Pacific Northwest sending deep breaths of salty, crisp air into my lungs.