An Appeal

"...

Tell me, as you would in the middle of the night
When we face only night, the ticking of a watch,
the whistle of an express train, tell me
Whether you really think that this world
Is your home? That your internal planet
That revolves, red-hot, propelled by the current
Of your warm blood, is really in harmony
With what surrounds you? Probably you know very well
The bitter protest, every day, every hour,
The scream that wells up, stifled by a smile,
The feeling of a prisoner who touches a wall
And knows that beyond it valleys spread,
Oaks stand in summer splendor, a jay flies
And a kingfisher changes a river to a marvel.

..."

-Czeslaw Milosz

Standing outside the other night with a light misty rain burning tiny ice holes through my coat I waited for a bus that I had assumed (wrongly) was supposed to come 20 minutes earlier. During this half frozen posture of anticipation I realized that being far from home (far enough that a phone call home would cost a small fortune) and taking public transport is making me learn what it means to wait quietly.

I watched as bus after bus stopped, blazing numbers with unfamiliar destinations and spilling people from their well lit interiors into the dank darkness to clutter on the sidewalk's edge then disband and drift apart to their various separate destinations. Airplanes rushed overhead, their bottoms looking like large bug's bellies to my anxious eyes. Not yet being used to taking the bus, my eyes would only briefly land on the Brussel's airport sign, the twitching lamp or the sheltered bus stop benches across the street (I got no such luxury where I stood) but remained glued to the empty street, searching for a brightly lit, appropriately numbered bus to approach.

It's strangely wonderful to be forced to stand and wait sometimes, to be made to take in a single area with a patience not often present except in situations of need.

Jane Kenyon

I feel as though everyone should have some Jane Kenyon in their lives.

"Happiness" has always been one of my favorites and currently, among the chilling air and all the newness in my life growing ever so slightly more familiar, with the smell of good coffee and sunlight seeping through the window I am feeling quite content and even (dare I say it?) happy. I am often wary of this feeling for it always ebbs and flows in a crazy unreliable fashion, however I'm beginning to realize (as long as you never go too deep into the depths of despair) that this makes the moments of sheer happiness all the better (or at least I feel that way as I revel in this time of happiness.)

The other quote is from "Dutch Interiors." I just love it. That's all.

Happiness

There's just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its place the finest garment, which you saved for an occasion you could not imagine, and you weep night and day to know that you were not abandoned, that happiness saved its most extreme form for you alone. No, happiness is the uncle you never knew about, who flies a single-engine plane onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes into town, and inquires at every door until he finds you asleep midafternoon as you so often are during the unmerciful hours of your despair. It comes to the monk in his cell. It comes to the woman sweeping the street with a birch broom, to the child whose mother has passed out from drink. It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker, and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots in the night. It even comes to the boulder in the perpetual shade of pine barrens, to rain falling on the open sea, to the wineglass, weary of holding wine. "Now tell me that the Holy Ghost does not reside in the play of light on cutlery!"

Indulgence

I have been attempting to process, but also to stay sane, to step away from all the newness that has been filling my brain and to allow myself to retreat and simply soak in loved things. I want to let myself indulge in the simple pleasures that are familiar, such as books, ink and blank paper, the calming beauty of Over the Rhine's music and conversations with family and to give myself some grace as I adjust and take in hundreds of things; ivy covered walls, languages, street's bends and names, and, of course, so many people.

I am currently in the midst of things that are, quite literally, foreign , and in the strangeness and newness of routines, faces and places I want to be able to remain, for lack of a more specific word, aware and lucid.