Life, whirling.

Life in the city continues just like life in the country, minute by minute and day by day, but the rushing of bustling people and the whooshing of bicycle riders and the glow of lights and the laughter that spills out onto the street wraps the days here with a warm and unknown quality that I find both attractive and disquieting all at once. 

I must admit that this was written on Sunday, and this is now Tuesday, so please excuse the delay in posting.

     I am sitting at a tiny table at Paris on the Plait in Denver, my seat next to the tall windows and my view of the twilighted city, soft. The occasional people walk the streets with leisure looking in the well lit windows of the trendy store fronts while bare branched trees thrust spiky fingers towards the paling sky. 

I take a sip of hot chocolate, the sweet thick, slightly cold, whipped cream sticking to my upper lip as the hot rich flavor seeps into my mouth, dancing on my taste buds and singing to my heart, the song of warmth and chocolate. 

I am grateful for what I have, that I indeed have this moment to sip hot chocolate and ponder the depths of my heart. That I have friends all over the country who are kind and caring and passionate and who, even when time and distance separates us, still keep the harths in their hearts warm for me.  I am grateful that I have money to pay for my glorious cup of hot coco and that I have dancing to look forward to on Tuesday night. 

I have been a whirl wind of words today, the ink spilling from my fingertips, precious and copious like blood. But my words haven’t exactly been telling a story, instead it's more like a mirage of emotions, that bloom and blend and dance, hiding meaning in their clever eyes and secrets in their scents. 

But last night in Fort Collins, walking back to the car at 2:30am a man on a bicycle, drunk, stopped, worried for our safety. Although he was fairly plastered himself, he wanted to make sure we were okay, two pretty young women walking the empty street in Fort Collins back to our quietly parked car. He said he had daughters too.

The world is a strange place, but I like it. 

     We went to Fort Collins in search of some good blues dancing, me, dragging a pretty tired Sasha along and trying to find strength from the two cats naps I’d taken since I had awakened at 5am and driven over the passes and the divide to Denver to attend an information meeting at the Denver Botanical Gardens for the Savannah College of Art and Design by 11. But with the draw of dancing to be had, I was game. 

I could feel it was right. That somehow I had to go, even if the effort of pushing past exhaustion was tiring, it would be worth it in the end. It was. 

I don’t think I’ll bore you with how that night went, instead I’ll leave a few words here that came from the night, almost the way blues dancing fragments life into shadowed images that feel so fully, but are pretty damn hard to explain. So here goes:

Awkward dancing.

Empty floor.

Exhaustion.

Friends.

Clicks.

Disenchanted dancing.

Open windows. 

Butterflies.

Old polished hard wood.

Norah Jones 

Tenderness.

Interest. 

Good dancing.

Conversation.

Heat.

Community.

Leaving with a warm heart.

After that night and getting to bed around 4am after getting up at 5am that morning, (that’s 23 hours on the ground, folks) I slept oddly, my night torn by dreams:

     The landscapes are filled and fraught with faces I don't know well enough. Words don’t speak the way they should.

The sky feels uncertain and the trees poke sharp fingers at the sky. Pleading for it to know more, and to know more, now. I have small sharp cuts on my hands that won’t stop bleeding, even though I am moving furniture, and doing things, with stern and soft faced people, the tangy smell of rain wet metal on my skin. We are waiting for someone. But I’m not sure who. 

Please just let me sleep. 

But, somehow, I am glad for the dream.

In the last few days I have been reminded of the complexity of joy.

Of love.

Of adventure and risk.

And of our incredibly precious time.

I am so inspired in people who strive to be real instead of just surviving. 

I am reminded of the deep gratitude that comes from knowing something in your own bones. And all the little, tiny, things, that I have seen growing along the road I walk. All the little things that have shaped me and grown me, loved me and shunned me.

I am grateful for words. 

And the healing that is sinking deep roots in the soil of my heart. 

And that I have found such depth of realness and comfort in loving the people in my heart, fiercely and without pause.

I am reminded of the vulnerability that is living. The vulnerability that is the unabashed truth of deep love.  

But most importantly in my life these days, I am reminded of hope. That it still exists and still lives even in the shadows of our darkest days, even in the blue red cantering landscapes of the world.