right out of its body as
I was extracting it from the leg of my jeans after it somehow got itself there as
I walked through a field in the fall with a friend by my side with
another friend’s binoculars in my hands as
I was trying to get closer to a bird I saw in the trees
just beyond the binoculars’ focusing power from where
we sat in the grass drinking hot water with mint while
we felt the wind in our hair.
The sky was so blue & so full &
the air tasted soft & new & the lungs
of the grasshopper were pumping desperately.
A poem of all the poems I haven’t been writing:
The birds that speak to me in a language
I do not speak but wish that I did.
The migraine feeling and the pain that
changes shape just when I’m not looking at it.
The crickets that lay beside me
under the muted color quilt,
singing a song without words.
The mist that sleeps in the valley.
The loneliness that sits on my shoulder
changing words before they enter my ears.
The learning that visits daily and leaves
me reminders of where to check for the light.
The gratitude that places its
gifts right at my fingertips.
The joy that sneaks up on me like
a slow snow, covering the land right at my feet.
Approximately 13 months ago, I moved into my aunt’s home in Santa Barbara. I spent 7 months working at a coffee shop; biking around town; reading and walking on the beach; seeing more of California and the western states; and recovering from the sleep loss of my senior year of high school.
In March, I stayed for a week with my closest friends in a hostel in Chicago. I took an Amtrak train for twelve hours to Mississippi and saw both sets of my grandparents. I traveled to Kenya for two weeks to say goodbye to my once-upon-a-time home and to friends.
At the beginning of April, I settled on an organic dairy farm in the Netherlands. I spent a lovely two months there, and then two too-short weeks on a sweet biodynamic produce farm. I spent those long spring days learning how to muck cow stalls; teach a calf to drink from a bucket; make cheese; say 10 ice cream flavors in Dutch; plant lettuce sprouts; clean onions; eat tayberries; and pick red currants. I met so many kind people and fell in love with the flat, green land of Holland.
Returning to the present: I am back in the US, with my parents and brother in our new condo in our old home, Nashville, Tennessee. It’s such a joy to be in a familiar town with long-time friends.
In a few days, I will start university at a small school outside of Asheville, North Carolina. I will settle into the deep, blue mountains and continue to thank the Universe for my whirlwind of a gap year.
As much as I’d love to, I couldn’t possibly tell you everything. Instead, I’ve compiled a list of all the places I’ve spent at least one night in the past thirteen months and linked is a poem I wrote there. I think it says enough.
It was a journey, folks. Thank you for following along, and thank you for reading.
There are some moments that write themselves
Into a poem by their very occurrence.
The sunrise, for instance.
The air still light with the moon’s chill.
The waking watchers waiting on the rocks and
The blanket over their feet.
The man and his dog panting into the water.
The singular, lucid moment when finally
Once again the Sun slides above the sea.
There are moments such as these:
When you move your body in a dance,
The way it was made to move from the
Very moment you rose from the primordial water.
There are such moments as these that write themselves
Simply by occurring, that write themselves
To tell you what your eyes have forgotten.