El Calafate
Written January 23, 2013
Everything feels holier here than I expected it to feel, and, somehow, I feel holy, too. It's the type of holiness I've only ever known on street benches in the middle of the night and in the subtle hints of unleaded gasoline in open-air garages. But it's here, too, on the southern tip of the world.
I can feel it as the wind whips strands of hair around my rosed cheeks. I can feel it in the sounds of calving glacier signaling that I've just missed seeing it again. I can feel it in the matted fur of countless stray dogs. I can feel it more than I can feel most things.
It's a type of holiness that makes you remember how easy it is to believe in God, and I want this feeling to be my religion. I want it to guide my choices and my heart and my tongue, because it's so gloriously natural. I want my faith to feel more natural. I want my faith to echo moss-coated tree limbs, pebbled paths, and air so cold it gets caught in your sinuses before it reaches your lungs. I want to feel as holy as this place feels, and I want to take that feeling with me when I go.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
It's like America, but South
Cather Chronicle VII
The Andes Mountains scream
their beauty as you pass
through, and maybe it's
really only a whisper, but
it picks up both velocity
and decibels as it careens
through the valleys the
rest of my world has
somehow forgotten. But I
don't know how. I doubt
I'll ever be able to.
For five weeks now every
breath has come stilted
and shallow as I feel
its echoes crash tight and
fast upon my lungs. All
things there fall in upon
one another, and it's easy
to start missing yourself
in such glorious chaos.
But I know where I'll
find me, tucked behind
a shaded creek and
softly spreading hills,
where every step ripples
and grows. It's hard to
crash into anything in
so much space.
I've never lived in two
places at one time, and
it's more taxing than I
wagered it would be but
also more complete. My only
joy in this noise, the only
way I know how to
appreciate it, comes from
my distinctly complex
relationship with its
brother in the Plains.
They both can deafen.
The Andes Mountains scream
their beauty as you pass
through, and maybe it's
really only a whisper, but
it picks up both velocity
and decibels as it careens
through the valleys the
rest of my world has
somehow forgotten. But I
don't know how. I doubt
I'll ever be able to.
For five weeks now every
breath has come stilted
and shallow as I feel
its echoes crash tight and
fast upon my lungs. All
things there fall in upon
one another, and it's easy
to start missing yourself
in such glorious chaos.
But I know where I'll
find me, tucked behind
a shaded creek and
softly spreading hills,
where every step ripples
and grows. It's hard to
crash into anything in
so much space.
I've never lived in two
places at one time, and
it's more taxing than I
wagered it would be but
also more complete. My only
joy in this noise, the only
way I know how to
appreciate it, comes from
my distinctly complex
relationship with its
brother in the Plains.
They both can deafen.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Winter Retreat: Dubai
Cather Chronicle VI
Here at the center of everything
it's difficult to tell where the
sandy, January grass ends and
where I begin. Never has such
a lonely, barren place been so
bursting with life. Where the
placidity of the Plains crumples,
and brown grass takes on a
dimension words haven't found.
Even dust obscures the solitary
gravel road, masking any known
civilization.
Here in the middle, life expands
toward the horizon in endless
undulations of sanguine stems
and chalky shrubs. And if you'd
like to be on top of the world,
you need only climb to the nearest
ridge and watch the hills erupt
around you. And everything is
the same vibrant color of silence
and, therefore, indistinguishable.
If it weren't for the way the
sun grew shadows on the
ground or the unexpected shocks
of blue from forgotten streams,
you'd be forced to believe that
you had become completely
dissolved. Completely nothing.
Here at the center of everything
it's easy to linger a little long.
The center lies cloistered in
the quiet creases of the plains,
where even the wind knows to
tip-toe. It is lone. It is singular.
And it was not meant for you.
Here at the center of everything
it's difficult to tell where the
sandy, January grass ends and
where I begin. Never has such
a lonely, barren place been so
bursting with life. Where the
placidity of the Plains crumples,
and brown grass takes on a
dimension words haven't found.
Even dust obscures the solitary
gravel road, masking any known
civilization.
Here in the middle, life expands
toward the horizon in endless
undulations of sanguine stems
and chalky shrubs. And if you'd
like to be on top of the world,
you need only climb to the nearest
ridge and watch the hills erupt
around you. And everything is
the same vibrant color of silence
and, therefore, indistinguishable.
If it weren't for the way the
sun grew shadows on the
ground or the unexpected shocks
of blue from forgotten streams,
you'd be forced to believe that
you had become completely
dissolved. Completely nothing.
Here at the center of everything
it's easy to linger a little long.
The center lies cloistered in
the quiet creases of the plains,
where even the wind knows to
tip-toe. It is lone. It is singular.
And it was not meant for you.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
I prefer the swamp.
I was about to start complaining, but there's rain, and there's thunder. And it's hard to complain about anything when there's rain and there's thunder.
My eyes droop harder than they used to at this hour of night. It makes me reminiscent about a time when sleeping was for the weak, a time when home was where I landed, a time when time meant nothing... nothing at all. Now I am weak. Now I prefer to land where my bed is, and my bed is at home. Now time means everything. So my eyes droop. They droop, and they remember.
Some things don't change though. Like my room. I still can't seem to keep a tidy room. I can keep a tidy home. I can keep a tidy classroom. But not my bedroom. That... that becomes a haven for all the messy thoughts in my head to spill out onto the carpet. And it's pretty messy in my head.
And I want to go walk in the rain right now, but I'm a chicken because I know it's cold. And I want to tell every person I meet that I love them, because I love every person I meet. And I want to tell every boy that I have a crush on him, because I have a crush on every boy. And I want to take every dog home with me. And I want to be 12 years old again, like I was last year and the year before that and the year before that and the year before that. And I want to ride my bike through the rain so the water hits me in the back, because I'm not nearly sophisticated enough to have wheel covers. And I want to ride down a hill as my shoes skid across the sidewalk. And I want everything to slow down just a little bit.
My eyes droop harder than they used to at this hour of night. It makes me reminiscent about a time when sleeping was for the weak, a time when home was where I landed, a time when time meant nothing... nothing at all. Now I am weak. Now I prefer to land where my bed is, and my bed is at home. Now time means everything. So my eyes droop. They droop, and they remember.
Some things don't change though. Like my room. I still can't seem to keep a tidy room. I can keep a tidy home. I can keep a tidy classroom. But not my bedroom. That... that becomes a haven for all the messy thoughts in my head to spill out onto the carpet. And it's pretty messy in my head.
And I want to go walk in the rain right now, but I'm a chicken because I know it's cold. And I want to tell every person I meet that I love them, because I love every person I meet. And I want to tell every boy that I have a crush on him, because I have a crush on every boy. And I want to take every dog home with me. And I want to be 12 years old again, like I was last year and the year before that and the year before that and the year before that. And I want to ride my bike through the rain so the water hits me in the back, because I'm not nearly sophisticated enough to have wheel covers. And I want to ride down a hill as my shoes skid across the sidewalk. And I want everything to slow down just a little bit.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Drunk like Angels on Christmas Eve
It's still a little too early to sleep with the window open, which is probably the saddest part of my day so far. Pretty good, eh? I finished off the newest season of Weeds on Netflix. It didn't disappoint. I also finished all of my grading for the last quarter (save the 7/8th grade business letters that are hiding somewhere on my computer at school). All in all, a successful day. I appreciate the fact that when I wake up these mornings, I can hear the birds outside my window. There's a comfort in that, that I don't recognize I miss until it's back.
Now, while I finish a mug of tea, I'll make a little list for you, simply because it's been a while.
There are some things that I will just NEVER understand.
1.) why my earrings are in my cereal bowl
2.) how string cheese works
3.) wedge heels
4.) why people aren't more willing to go great distances to get me coffee
5.) science
6.) sheep wearing fleece sweaters
Please bring me these things immediately.
1.) coffee (or tea)
2.) dinosaurs
3.) a party
Now, while I finish a mug of tea, I'll make a little list for you, simply because it's been a while.
There are some things that I will just NEVER understand.
1.) why my earrings are in my cereal bowl
2.) how string cheese works
3.) wedge heels
4.) why people aren't more willing to go great distances to get me coffee
5.) science
6.) sheep wearing fleece sweaters
Please bring me these things immediately.
1.) coffee (or tea)
2.) dinosaurs
3.) a party
Thursday, March 10, 2011
A lesson on being born...
It always happens like this...
Your hand will graze his, and you won't even notice
until he doesn't move. "Sorry," as your fingers make a
quick, awkward retreat to your pocket or your purse
or your hair. You didn't mean to, but you're not sorry.
You think you are, but you're not. And you noticed that
he didn't shrink away from you, and you know that if
your hands were to touch again in that way, your fingers
would recollect all of those underwater basket weaving
classes you skipped in college to have lunch together.
So you keep your hand in your pocket, in your purse, in
your hair. Because you're scared. Because you realize all
this tension started ten months ago. Because you remember
now the corn husk moon on the grass and the grass on your
feet and your feet in the cool, night air of May. Because you
remember how holy that was. And you're scared, because
this night could be holy, too. And you both know God a
whole lot better than most televangelists. But the God in
your actions and the God in your stomach, has never been
the God in your voice. So all this holiness comes manifest
in one hand graze and a lot of thoughts with no mouth.
All the Hail Mary's and Glory Be's aren't going to bring
your voice any closer to grazing his with a, "I think I like
you." Because you hide it a whole lot deeper than your
pocket or your purse or your hair. So tonight you'll leave
with that one moment, with the God in your stomach and
the God in your actions trying to make it past your teeth.
Your hand will graze his, and you won't even notice
until he doesn't move. "Sorry," as your fingers make a
quick, awkward retreat to your pocket or your purse
or your hair. You didn't mean to, but you're not sorry.
You think you are, but you're not. And you noticed that
he didn't shrink away from you, and you know that if
your hands were to touch again in that way, your fingers
would recollect all of those underwater basket weaving
classes you skipped in college to have lunch together.
So you keep your hand in your pocket, in your purse, in
your hair. Because you're scared. Because you realize all
this tension started ten months ago. Because you remember
now the corn husk moon on the grass and the grass on your
feet and your feet in the cool, night air of May. Because you
remember how holy that was. And you're scared, because
this night could be holy, too. And you both know God a
whole lot better than most televangelists. But the God in
your actions and the God in your stomach, has never been
the God in your voice. So all this holiness comes manifest
in one hand graze and a lot of thoughts with no mouth.
All the Hail Mary's and Glory Be's aren't going to bring
your voice any closer to grazing his with a, "I think I like
you." Because you hide it a whole lot deeper than your
pocket or your purse or your hair. So tonight you'll leave
with that one moment, with the God in your stomach and
the God in your actions trying to make it past your teeth.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Twilight zone. Twilight saga.... Twilight.
I wish things would quit ruining the word "twilight." It's such a beautiful word.
Over the last couple of years I've started noticing something that, at first, only seemed like a coincidence. I'm not sure what it is now. Maybe it's still just a coincidence. Maybe it's something more. Maybe it's nothing. I often go walking around or driving in the dark. There's never really a set time or location. I just go... whenever I feel like it. It's been like that all the places that I've lived, ever since high school. And every time that I've gone walking in the dark, all the times I can remember, streetlights have turned off above me. Not around me. Not like I see them flicker in the distance.... No... when I'm directly below them, they just... turn off. And it's not all of them. It's usually just one, maybe two. I think it happens when I'm in my car, too. I know that it does sometimes, and others... it's just a sense that I get. I can just tell.
Like I said, maybe it's all in my head. Maybe that happens to people all the time, just like me. But there's always something so surreal about it, something so eerie, yet wonderful.
Over the last couple of years I've started noticing something that, at first, only seemed like a coincidence. I'm not sure what it is now. Maybe it's still just a coincidence. Maybe it's something more. Maybe it's nothing. I often go walking around or driving in the dark. There's never really a set time or location. I just go... whenever I feel like it. It's been like that all the places that I've lived, ever since high school. And every time that I've gone walking in the dark, all the times I can remember, streetlights have turned off above me. Not around me. Not like I see them flicker in the distance.... No... when I'm directly below them, they just... turn off. And it's not all of them. It's usually just one, maybe two. I think it happens when I'm in my car, too. I know that it does sometimes, and others... it's just a sense that I get. I can just tell.
Like I said, maybe it's all in my head. Maybe that happens to people all the time, just like me. But there's always something so surreal about it, something so eerie, yet wonderful.