In the early morning aftermath of our New Year’s Eve Party, everyone slowly emerged, none too happily at that. All of us with little sleep and bleary eyes. It was a hard time to be waking up at 6:30am when you didn’t go to bed until around 2am that morning. Regardless, we struggled out of bed and greeted the first day of the New Year with half-tempered smiles and curious minds for the day ahead. ...
On the eve of a new year, I began my newest adventure in the land of Israel. Sleepless night turned into tired morning as the sun wiggled its way under my door. Being jet lagged is never fun, but when you open your door and feel the Israeli sun on your face for the first time, many things are forgotten. I opened the door to a clear crisp sun on a slightly hazy day that seemed to have been sung in by birdsong. ...
Whenever I return home from a trip there is always a barrage of questions awaiting me from everyone I know. I love to return to family and friends that are inquisitive and curious about my experiences, but I always feel a sense of disappointment in my ability to answer their questions. How can I put into words so quickly the things that I saw? How can I explain the ways in which I have been changed by the things that I saw? How can I convey the beauty and complexity that fills the world that we live in and how grateful I am for even a short glimpse into these complexities? This is what I am faced with upon my return from any trip, but I feel these things especially now after my return from Israel. ...
Some where in the back of my mind I have always known I lived in an exceptional place, it just wasn’t often that I cared to appreciate it. I used to make up stories about adventures in far away lands and imagine myself in a thousand places, anywhere but home. The exciting and the extraordinary was always beyond that next mountain or underneath the crashing waves of the sea, but never did I look at the mountains or the ocean right in front of me. ...
My family spent a lot of time this holiday season thinking about memories of holidays past. What made things memorable, what things did we hold on to so many years later, was it happiness? Was it disappointment? And if so, why? I have been thinking a lot about this lately and one thing my mother said to me that she remembered from Christmas in her childhood very fondly was when she made things for her entire family. How the act of sitting down and applying oneself entirely to doing something that you just want to do because it would make your family happy. I think that is a good reason to look back on Christmas or whatever holiday is being celebrated during this cold winter season where family keeps us warm and happy; to celebrate not because we feel obligated and tied to disappointment or the gratification of materialistic desires, but the celebration of loving for the sake of loving. Because they are family, because they are not perfect, and because they are our blood, our flesh, and from them we find meaning. ...
I spent a lot of time this semester sitting in a library, neck craned, eyes strained, and brain drained. Even though these places are beautiful in their own majestic academic ways, with towering columns that have held up the burdening weight of university, I can’t help but feel closed in by four walls. There is so much outside those tall grandiose windows that let light drift gently in to illuminate the library walls. ...
Windy, cloudy, stormy days always remind me of this poem. It is an older one but I thought I would repost it today just because I always think of this poem on a day like today. The woman walks Along in a crowded street Surrounded by people Yet so alone A scarf like a noose Wrapped around her frail neck Hands shoved deep Into her pockets She only looks At the ground The rhythmic step of her feet Her wide hat Shields her from the world She ignores them Is afraid of them She wraps herself tighter In what is safe and comforting And is content in isolation So she walks along In a crowd of people Without faces The wind picks up For a moment it whispers A soft secret in her ear A riddle told to fast As the wind Carried her hat away The woman let out A short little gasp As her barrier was removed She reached forward Fingertips grazing it Just out of reach As it bounces and rolls Along the dirty street She chases in vain And no one will help Finally out of breath And out of heart She gives up Standing in the crowd Puffs of winter breath Clouding before her as she watches Her hat dance away Her hair billowing about her Watching with sad longing eyes She stands still among thousands As she turns to leave A tap on her shoulder She turns in surprise A man stands before her Her hat in hand Holding it out towards her A smile but no words She takes it and offers A shy little smile in return As she starts to pull it Back into place He reaches out to stop her Why He asks her You have such a pretty face He smiles and lets go Giving an impartial shrug You don’t need to hide You are beautiful you know He leaves her with His few soft words And a knowing smile She stands there Hat in hand Filled with his offerings Her eyes are wide And her hands slightly quake She lifts the hat Looking at it now And tosses it away She watches it Flit and dance in the sky Gone forever She smiles slightly The stranger’s knowing smile She doesn’t need it anymore
A Red Bellied sparrow thrashes Desperation clawing against the clear glass Of a crimson window frame Feathers soft turned brittle with fear Push and push with no result Fighting a one sided battle With an immovable object And a mind that cannot comprehend That this battle cannot And will not Be won Red bellied sparrow with heaving chest Throw yourself against the window No more Cradle of mercy Cup the wilted head of the defeated Carry it gently Feeling with curious fingers the fluttering Heart beat of an animal trapped A being consumed by fear and confusion Nestled close against your chest Feel the fear from a cage Cast by the crimson shade of light Of an escape masked with unseen bars Carry it gently Out into a light untainted with crimson Where, extended into space The cradle parts Setting the red bellied sparrow free ...
Rain drops danced on the window sill, running their fingers gently against the glass with longing sighs as they settled into seas of water only to be disturbed again by the next drop. The tulips wilting on the inside of the window breathed in the warm air of the house, yet still could not bloom as they watched with drooping faces the disturbance on the window sill. All was quiet in the house except for the gentle tapping of the rain on the window pane like a young lover throwing rocks to awaken his sleeping beauty. Across the white walls of the small apartment lay splashes of life that were too wild and untamed to be contained to a single wall let alone one skinny apartment space. The solitary apartment stood isolated on the ground floor of a building centered in New York’s sprawling system of roads, where it alone seemed vibrant and alive. Roads like the pathways of a body filled with the ever awake but seemingly never living people of the city that never sleeps. Separated by thin capillary walls from the bustle of the dark and dirty streets lay the hidden white walls of her home. The macabre symphony of art was pinned to the walls in a random yet insistently purposeful manner that blossomed from a young and wild heart. The Van Gogh imitations to the typography, and the old photographs of people she had never known filled the spaces of the white wall with color and life that she mastered and owned but still was not her own. The very walls jittered with a peaceful happiness where her fingers had traced along the walls as she had run through the tight hallways and rooms. Every window, every space had been filled by her loving hands so no spot would feel alone or empty. She was kind. ...
I saw you in a rare and out of prints bookstore reading out of the “Rare Illustrated Children’s Section” and I was intrigued. What were you looking at? It looked almost as if it is was a native American illustrated text but I had no idea. You were so focused and singular in your search it made me want to read wat you had picked up and know why you were so interested in it. Also, you never came down from your little stool, you stood on it the entire time and never moved, not even to sit on it. IT was as if up there on your stool and your children’s book you were in your own little world. It has been a while since I read a book like that and was a little envious as I watched you. I miss that world of singularity where ti is just you and the work in front of you. No distractions, no disruptions, and no failures in focus. I miss that. I wanted to have that, to be back in that world, but instead I had to watch from afar only wishing it was me on that stool with a book in hand that made the rest of the world disappear.