Homeward Bound

It is difficult to know where to begin when I am still clearly in transition. Reeling from only three hours of sleep the last night of residency, even the best espresso I’ve had since Paris wasn’t enough to lure me into being fully present this afternoon.

But glimmers of my writing voice came back to me today amidst the flurry of city life. Seeing in scenes, my mind’s eye shot footage of poetry-prompting people, sounds, and tastes. There’s something inside that makes room for being enamored with the world in this way. Then there’s the act of being out in the world or diving with thought and heart into an idea enough to connect something specific to a greater universal. Sometimes there’s some steeping of the experience that needs to happen next; a gestation period of sorts. Finally, the creating: a painting, a song, a stanza, a story, a photo.

I need a steady space in order to do this day in and day out. Three weeks away from home, living out of my duffel, and treading water at the confluence of my own creativity and the expertise of professional writers has been exhausting. While I can’t complain about the experiences I’ve had, I’m also looking forward to the familiar space of my writing desk, that sweet view of the Black Mountains, and the abundance of bright green all around me. The silence, too, will be nice to make friends with again.

How fitting that I’ll arrive deep into the night, a pitch black sky speckled with white stars welcoming me back to my little cabin in the woods. When I wake it will be in a new world. A world that I know from memory but will look at and experience with different eyes when the sun rises.

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