leaves hit the sky with their vibrance at six in the morning it is still not quite light out, but my eyes are wides open. I am many things, rested not among them but early morning is my favorite time of day.
I watch the day grow lighter, shivering on these unattached steps waiting for the biggest shiver to send me in through the doors to warm tea. Then I am no longer in someone else’s bed. I take pen to paper then stop and hunt long kisses just before saying goodbye. I don’t like to be caught with what I have found. I write again, in the fall, not in intention but out of necessity, the only way to keep my fingers warm and my mind unfrozen. Timer buzz, it is afternoon now, time for dinner soon and warm out of the oven. —
Then, it has been a week. I sit for few moments yet upon a bus, one side of this bookend that will be four days. A car ride, a bus ride, two train rides, a bus ride, a car ride. This is exciting, though I had not known how to let it be such for many months. Only knew that westward bound one of these days I would be. So two false starts, and then here I am, on my way for real.
I smell chicken soup, strange for a bus. I tried to write this in stillness as I rested my soul in fairyland, but now I have taken that well fed body of mine into this bus and I find it is comfortable here, too. Contentment is not a place, but something I carry with me. So from Maine to California I embark. Across this country into corners I have never been, we will see. Lately I’ve been listening to music I haven’t heard since I was fifteen. Wondering who I have turned out to be, and who it is I will turn into, but then again, just happy to be me.
One day, the fall will remind me to hibernate, because I can feel this in my soul, but now I travel through the rain. We will see where and when I will be. I have learned that confusion may be relevant, that it does not have to pull me into a dream state, and that sometimes it is okay if I am angry. And when I learned that, I learned that growing pains are true and real, and every seed has a breaking point, and I’m learning what it means to stretch my roots out. They may grow slowly, but they still grow. And when I learned this I learned that it’s okay to be happy, again, in myself. I remembered that happiness and sadness are not exclusive.
This is about me, my dream last night. I spoke to someone who wasn’t there, and he asked me why I was walking in a direction I did not mean to go, then I opened doors and let them sit while I boarded a plan. You, and he, and the oak tree on the other side. Even my mama was there, and I let her be. I sit with oak leaves and poems I wrote earlier this week about how I was learning to be still in a space. Everything, again, is not only okay but exactly as it’s meant to be. I know this, because I dreamt about the bus station I arrived at this morning. I had never been there before.
I wonder if my life will always be perfect puzzle pieces. When I was seven years old, I wondered who the people on the train were that slept in their chair and not in a room with their parents. I wondered how, and why. I watched them doze and wanted to know them. Tonight I will become one among their ranks, and dream well of places I do not yet know.