Posted in Travel, Updates and Musings

Running Away Again (or running towards everywhere)

I am sitting in the back seat of a ’98 subaru, and we’re rolling downhill in neutral on the interstate because there is construction traffic in an almost standstill.  Alex Turner’s voice runs out of our little bluetooth speaker velcroed to the dashboard, and we wait patiently for the breeze to alleviate the stillness of the warm air. My mind is caught in the thousand places it has been in the past several months, and my heart is still trying to figure out how it can be made of love for so many people and places and still be it’s own entity.  make change happen—this is what I embroider with yellow thread onto purple cloth, so that I can stitch it haphazardly to the backpack I impulsively bought from a street vender in Venice. make change happen—as in don’t sit and wait for it to happen. Do what you want to do.  make change happen—but make sure it’s the change you want to happen. 
A month an a half ago, I had thoughts of moving to Wisconsin, and yet here I find myself on my way to everywhere and anywhere. 
In the front seat of the car are two of my best friends in the world, a jar of coconut oil and Freddy, our travel partner who was stitched together by a dear friend of ours and now lives comfortably on the dashboard, staring out the windshield with his button eyes.  The trunk is filled with our backpacks and flannels and ukuleles and my yellow hula hoop.  Mason jars of tea occupy our cup holders and shoes are scattered on the floor because our feet breathe more comfortably barefoot. 
Even though the realness of leaving the green mountains so soon is sinking in and I feel more at home glancing at rearview mirror views than staring at mirrors hung in bedrooms or over bathroom sinks, the reality hasn’t settled into my bones yet. Although I was just home in Vermont for 3 weeks, it feels like I was barely there at all.  3 weeks is just time enough to hug my family, recover from strep throat and run away into the woods with my brothers. Just enough time to remember to breathe in the mountain air and want to stay longer.  Just enough time to remember that my home is found in my journal and my scarf and my hiking boots.  My home is changing scenery and abandoned buildings I’ll never see again.  My home is poetry read to me in the middle of the night, and letters that I write in the early hours of the morning. 
Make change happen—this thought nestles into my brain so comfortably that sometimes I forget it’s there.  But sometimes it cries out, waiting to be fed, listened to.  Maybe I should change it to make your life what you want it to be, but maybe make change happen is an acceptable way to say the same thing.
I am still a child, learning how to be an adult and how to make the change I want to happen.  But I can write about it, breathe, run barefoot.  I can pretend I’m a grown woman who is so certain of everything I know (but maybe I don’t know anything at all, in fact this seems like the most likely possibility of all.  Except I know I love tea, and I love to sing along with the tea kettle whistles, so that’s something.)
Overstimulation is a side effect of moving on from my temporary homes every few days or weeks. The words get stuck inside my overstimulated mind, and build up a dam, which collects all the words but I cannot get them out.  And yet in the past month, suddenly they have become stronger and they rushed over the dam of overstimulation, and poetry is once again pouring out of me like there is no tomorrow. 
Or like there is a tomorrow and I long to paint it with poetry and stories and the beautiful, dangerous mess that is my mind. 
I will continue to let words splatter messily onto pages and broken down tea boxes as we meander our way down interstate 81, flying towards Virginia so that we can run through waterfalls with our darling friend and decide where the road will take us next. 

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