On Want

I wanted to write about the nature of wanting and then I talked with a good friend last night about all different sorts of wants and decided I want to tell you about how most days I think I could be very happy on a ranch, running around with horses and dogs and maybe some cows or something.

I do not know why I think this.

Except for yes, mostly I do.  I like to think that I would be "good" at living the simple life.  Simple for me = less noise + more quiet + less electronic shit + more outdoors goodness.  I like to think that a big move, a change of scenery, a different pace equals simple.  I suppose it's not that easy, though, right?

When I reflect on my current state of affairs, sometimes this doesn't seem too far away.  A sense of an ending in this weird but achingly lovely city doesn't necessary seem imminent, but at the same time I can't rule it out entirely just yet.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that (you guessed it): I don't know.  Maybe the more I admit this the less terrifying it will become. Eh, probably not.

Things I Wish Would Happen But Will Most Likely Not Be Today, Etc.

Though I hate to acknowledge/these things take time/They cannot be rushed/or fast-forwarded/or ambushed into action/(which is what I'd prefer they do)/Perhaps for now we can sit/Walk the lake/Hope for good things for people who are not ourselves/And maybe "3rd times the charm,"/or 4th/or 5th/or maybe no charms/Just a peace and hope for what is to come/But still trying to be okay with the quiet,/the sadness,/the humility of solitude.

on leaving.

let's hope so.

i still have

the scars on my knees reminding me that we are not immortal,
dragging patellas under water over painted concrete,
weary sun bathers resting in shade.

orange picking in the groves about a half mile from your house,
stretching on tip toes with pulp-stained fingers
cows watching lazily in the summer field.

quiet sunday afternoons for hushed whisperings of conversation,
falling asleep under the table, dreams of moving back home--
it`s not such a bad place.

bare-footed evening lopings through the vineyard,
your hand in mind, letting go to check on the Chasselas or Gamay or Petit Rogue
running back towards the trail, flashlights in hand,
zig-zagging slices of light.

été.

i`m going to start writing more.
i`m going to call home more often, &ask my dad how his day went.
i`m going to show diana, &sarah, &elise that i love them tangibly.
i don`t know how yet, but i`m going to do it.
i`m going to be a faith full pen pal writer, &keep using my mama`s college typewriter.
i`m going to go to bed earlier, and wake up feeling more a live than usual.
i`m going to start listening to good music again.
i`m going to listen to the same album over &over, for as long as i want.
i`m going to take thought-filled, intentional walks in the hills.
i`m going to go trail running or leaping or bounding.
i`m going to converse with children, in hopes of improving my vocabulary.
i`m going to study the elders, in hopes of gaining wisdom.
i`m going to start being a good steward of my money.
i`m not going to worry about it. [i think that`s a good start.]
i`m going to live more simply.
i`m learning to love Y(?)ou more.

pour a little salt, we were never here.

i don`t know what to tell you, really.
of how to relay what laps i have run, [oh! the distances these feet have walked!]
&you expect to receive my gifts wrapped up neatly in butcher paper, tied with strawy twine?
i cannot speak to that.

of pigeons, people, &pretty, fine things.
of night time wanderers, metros, &cobbled streets.
of day-long flyings, &airport wanderings, and finally coming home [?] where is that again?
of short sleeps, bicycle rides, chlorinated swimming pools, ping pong tables &soft hearts.

yes!
i forgot what it is like to have two hands and feet,
we need to be reminded.
but i doubt you could ever know what i truely mean.

six

&what does it mean when you spend too much time with one person,
& not enough with a nother,
but you don`t really mind that much at all?

closer to my age.

I like that when two people enjoy one another, nay, love eachother, perhaps even more than themselves, they wed.
I truly do.
I also like that with a forehead covered in salty sweat and hands pricked by grass clippings, I could not love my father more.

eight.

I need the Jesus who is as real and raw as my chapped hands on a blustery February morning.
Pray that my love will be as relentless as the high and low tides.

(#7)the motion of life.