How much life will thrill into my fingertips before I am done with this world?

Traveling, like old shoes wandering behind me. Traveling, like fire catching wind in my heart. Just racing down the highway, just feeling my heart racing in its boney box. Just flying. That’s all I could ever need.

We tumbled through Pennsylvania, grey-mountained and spiny branched. Trees poking out at every drop of sky like wheel spokes…waiting to sprout green and yellow. Everything was waiting, or at the slightest urging- just beginning to pop. Pennsylvania showed its crags and quiet rock-splays; its sauntering hills and timeless farms nestled together like dreamscapes. I washed my face in iron-mineral water springing out of the ground, splashing over stones. We pushed our way onward to Pittsburgh, glowing with hot coal ash and metallic bridge bones. The city paraded around us, steel beams and frozen glass, tunnels of old brick houses squeezed together like teeth. The city spiraled around us, old wonders and new markers marking the territory this world built up. The children giggled and spun, switched on flowers and sang old memories like stories, like sounds of a place and time you have never left. We ate leftovers and Iranian take-out. Rest-stop-remnants and crumpled-up-car-chips. We ate eggs because it was Easter. We bundled up because it was Easter. And the sun had decided to take a break from the spring. We traced suburb lines and new house tiles and admired the hospitality of our 4 different hosts in 3 days. We marveled at how the children had grown. Then we got back in the car and sped our way through the last chunk of land called Pennsylvania. We tumbled through West Virginia for a brief moment, then spilled our way out into those wide, endless highways of the midwest – the sprawling, infinite road graced only by grass, corn and aching horizon.  Ohio called us down and across, spreading wider and wider that horizon. The finely molded hillsides; the small trails of cows and sheep. The midwest goes on and on. As a city approached in the distance, I remembered the faint memory of Columbus; of a boy who called that city home and of a heart that shattered like glass. I remembered being 18 and I remembered Ohio. We slid through that city at a cool 75 miles-per-hour and suddenly it was in the rear-view mirror. The road goes on. And on and on. We steamed ahead towards Dayton…laid on the ground in my Grandparents basement and listened to stories about the 30’s. Saw pictures of my great-great-great grandparents. Stoic and dark, staring out of old faded moments captured in time. Strangers and ancestors. Grandpa showed me his saws and tools and arrowheads and old found stones and trinkets. His eyes still shine clear and his voice is still full of stories. He shows me a glimmer of what that feeling of having a father you respect in your life must feel like. We all tumbled in to a booming, boisterous restaurant. Jamie trilled about the place adoringly stuffing peanuts in his mouth. There were aunts and uncles and cousins we had long since lost touch with years ago. There was Grandpa and Grandma and Will and Victoria and my little boy bounding about. I remember when my cousins were born, seeing them in their baby stages. And now they gazed, about to enter college, at my boundless boy. Life is strange like that, sometimes. Oftentimes, all the time.

So who is to blame for all the nonsense ways we treat each other? For how difficult it is to be this thing called human. For all the ways we fail each other in forgiveness and understanding. How long will we continuously forget what it is to love, to empathize, to hold anger in our hands and let it dissipate. How hard is anger, this finite rock we must carry in our pockets. How vast is resentment, is fear, is the strength of a storm. How fast do our heads snap around on their axes to spit back fire at the sky. I want anger to fuel me only so far as to light a fire in my skin bright enough to see. I want anger only to serve me, not to be served by it. I want forgiveness. I think forgiveness is always right. Always.

Here is the world and suddenly it is blooming. Here is my heart and suddenly it is healing. Always life is glistening black and cloudless. Here is the spring and now my eyes can see. Here is the spring and I am all aflutter with what is blowing in the wind. So many seeds, so many eggs, so much hope, so much growing, so much growth. So little known, so much to be known.

Here is my heart and it is always a fire in flight. Burning at the ocean, burning at the edges, burning at laughter, burning at light.

At last, at last, my body feels full of the rattling again. Of the din of new day’s light.

San Diego sweeps and steals shining blazes of color from the sky. It pulls flowers from the earth and spreads them across hillsides, highway sides, tree-sides, store-sides, cliffsides. San Diego washes clean the remedy of rocks – of barreling, sloping rocks and pounding, pummeling wave rolls. It swells in the afternoon light and covers itself in shadows long and lean, succulent and green. It swarms with culture, oblivion and white-hot California aching. It swallows surfers, sand dogs, money hippies, collared wanderers, ancient whisperers, whispy-bearded borrowers and young, squealing, delight-children. San Diego sings in notes high pitched and wallowy; willowy and wandering, San Diego smarts and starts…peels itself up at the edges and serves miles of piles of food. San Diego takes its time wading into the water, wafting away down sliding streets, shimmying down old bridges, swimming through Spanish citadels. San Diego turns new at the edges, old at the cliff-sides, infinite at the ocean tides. Wild with cacti, bundles of bungalow-ed architecture, hatching like mis-matched teeth, splintered like city sidescapes, placed together haphazardly- fearless and full of color. Houses sit together like strange friends, meeting, diversifying, lying, meeting the night, coloring in the spaces with new age love and old age peace. San Diego barrels along at the tiny precipice of the country, looks west towards the sea, east towards the monument of a land named home, and north towards that glittering state called California. San Diego owns light; shares it, gives it, belays it, honors it, and wraps it around it’s splaying cliff-sides like a golden prize worth keeping. San Diego keeps like the light safe. Nestled and narrowing in tiny caverns and in vast slopes of sunshine and serenity.

Have you ever seen love drifting across the sky?

So many words that get stuck in the back of my brain…for there is always so little time to write. To breathe. To pummel myself into the world.

But it’s happening. Like oxygen and air, the earth is springing back.

All those cliched notions, all those fast, sweeping motions, the great camera of the mind, the rhythm of time, the radical regurgitation of life. To newness.

To life spilling out in waves and in torrents, to colors popping out of the earth without fear, to rain and sliding sunlight that begins to pierce through my wintered skin, to small gestures that open large windows, to love that sits in the creases and folds. To spring, to clouds, to rapidly greening hillsides. To adventure, at last, again. To following that road. Winding, twisting, catapulting. To possibility. Ageless and wild.

 

I gravitate too easily to the universality of things. This often can blind me.

But here I am, and here is the day, and here is the weather, and blow as it may. Life is loving and love is following me.

I’m always talking about that word love in the universal sense, for the record. That great Love. The essence of love. The love in all things. The love at the center of the world, moving atoms haphazardly about. That gravity that pulls us like magnets towards the doors we are always flying out of. That pulls us towards the water. Towards home – that place in the air beyond right and wrong.

Softly flowing lovelight, I am always trying to find you again.

Even after all that wind, there is still music.

When will that wide-gazing eye of universality meet me somewhere in the middle, with a pile of words and a way to sort through them?

There is always more to say. And hardly ever the right way to say it.

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” – Rumi

And each day those tiny daffodil hands keep sprawling higher towards the sky, keep scratching the atmosphere with their radiant green hopes. Life is coming, life is coming. The wind whispers back.

And even now, the sun feels like shattered rain and the time it takes to get from here to there lights up with longer shadows. Life is coming, life is coming.

And still, my heart, it pounds. Abounds in things and tastes and reams of white, paper light. Children are growing, always growing. Learning, spacing the world between their fingers. Jamie is forming tiny words – uh oh, peekaboo, broom. Clocks are always ticking, writing is never enough. Tasks are always mounting, time is never strong enough to hold me down. Winter is almost over, winter is almost over. Divorce is almost here. The system is growing strange, politics is growing rabid. Hard to follow hope, easy to follow the madness. But the madness is just nonsense and the world is going somewhere fast. Let’s hope it’s somewhere worth going. Let’s make it somewhere worth going. Fuck hate and ignorance. Follow light and love.

Simmer, shimmer and glow. The world is about to light up again. That’s most likely all that matters. If I can get myself to look at it that way. And I can do most anything, it seems.

Fuck nihilism. Even if we’re all going to burn, we’ll all burn bright.