Sugar pears, letters, and a sense of self

. 2 min read

Being back in Europe, living off sugar pears and pecans, wandering aimlessly through cobble stoned streets and the grasses of parks...

It ignites the soul.

I haven't been back to where I am right now, London, since last year. And it's remarkable to think how much has changed since I've been here. How much, and yet how little.

I guess, the biggest thing is really the filament of bravery I've found inside that I never thought I would. I know how that sounds... but it's true. When I was young I was so timid. And it feels like, since finding myself between the pillows of words and the sheets of pages I've found that missing sauce that most—it always seemed—were born with.

Perhaps the deeper truth there is that, what I've found is that while, yes, some may have less hang ups, and these very same people may more easily frolic around the world with zero to no cares, so many are like myself. And there's not, in fact, anything wrong with us.

Again, I realize how that sounds. So basic. So "of course." And yet, it's not when you're young and you feel like this odd lemming that overthinks nearly everything that walks into her mind.

I will say, it does still shock me how the more and more I just accept my thoughts and my inklings, and allow these slivers of me to see the light of day, the more letters I get from those who see things in a similar glimmer. And the more sparkle that brings to both of our lives.

I've never felt so full before and I know that no matter what happens now, it's okay. Because I am on my way.

PS. This path, I've recently found, includes little pieces like the one I recently had published in Elephant Journal.

Here's a snippet:

Because no matter how drenched in yellow light we may be,
no matter how bronze our skin may glow,
liquid only needs to trickle down tissue
once, for us to remember
how it tickles forever.

Full piece lives on Elephant Journal here.

& this tiny piece for Paris

Au Revoir
Water trickles
Down the hilly slopes
Of the light blue streets
Toward the closed cafés of the Seine
The heart says no,
But the feet say yes
So tears bake inside
The hollow of the chest
Cup and dough in hand
Floating to the train
Bags get stowed away
Like the pangs of sweet pain