This seat cushion is warm.
Like my skin
after I take off my sweater.
That someone has left
their heat for me
is not as gross
as I used to think.
I find that I am
comforted.
As if it were human
to leave behind
impressions of warmth.
the woman clasping
the legs of her child
as he sits on her shoulders
and they jump together—
their blond curls floating
in the afternoon wind
just above the white fence.
When my body wakes me. It’s still dark.
I open the window above my bed. The whispering dawn snuggles down. Down into my hair. Down into the space between me and my sleeping bag. Which I sleep in despite the closet full of sheets.
The whispering dawn lifts me out. Out into my running shorts. Into my cheetah print bandana. Into my bright blue shoes. Into my head torch. I’m lifted out, to embrace the dawn. I’m taken to the end of the drive. I’m waiting for that car to pass.
I’m running.
I’ve noticed, today, that
I gotta write
with my shoes off—
with my bare naked
happy toes
wiggling hello
to the world;
else this mirror soul
be closed til June
When I look at her,
those moons of fondue eyes,
she tilts her chin to return the gaze
and in this intersection
we share a secret.
My lips spark all the way
to my ears, which
wiggle a bit
as my eyebrows raise
and in response
her tail wags quick—
I know it.
She knows it.
In this intersection
we share a secret.
+ Austria, Bold, Gratitude, Humor, Indonesia, Living on Purpose, New Zealand, Poetry, World Perspective, writing
Half a Year Away, Away (and Happy 300!)
by Josie
Half a year has gone by since I left Kansas. I’m still learning various currency exchange rates and the metric system, so still going strong (relative phrase).
Relativity is a fickle friend.
If I think on some of the travelers I have met—Liz and Hadyn in Assisi, who have been backpacking the world since summer 2016, Sara in Mostar, who traveled alone for three years, John in Fes, who has been biking around the world for the past six years—my little bench mark seems flat.
Then to swing to the other side: I think of all the family two-week trips that took ages to pack for, of all the one-month missionary trips my friends raised money for, the summer two-month exchange trips to Argentina I was so eager to hear stories about.
I get puffed right back on up, because relative to that, six months is a hefty amount.
Same goes for my second benchmark: this is my 300th blog post.
in a black rubber suit
zipped to mid-chest,
the two sides flapping
in the sea gusts, flapping to the beat
of the lurching dinghy
and up and up and down
down to the choppy Arabian
waters, his bare foot braced
on the lip of the bow
foot tendons flexing, whooping
unbridled
as the sea spray leaps
to his curls—
pauses his laughter
for only a moment
to take a long drag of his cigarette.
I watch their eyebrows raise and hands
rise and shoulders follow and I know:
they’re about to ask me to do
something. Again.
Again, again.
So I steel myself,
gather in my guts
call forth the soldiers
lounging in my spleen
and I say, group-huddle:
Do you all know the plan?
The one that involves a speedy shut down?
Do you remember what we’ve practiced?
Task Force assures me that they do,
and assembles.
I wake up the long way
this morning:
my fire reflects
last night’s hearth the ashes cold
the glass remembers.
Cold cuts grow like cast iron Sundays
& I find it so easy to blink slow.
It happens, sometimes, when I am planning what’s next.
I’ll be running from that feeling of restless boredom with the present, chasing a desire to be free and unlimited again. I’ll head to the library. Start pulling any “Best Tramps of New Zealand”, “Hidden Places of the Pacific Islands”, “1000 Things to See in the North Island” sort of books I can find.
I’ll head to my computer, and pull up HelpX. Start browsing through the New Zealand category, preferably in the South Island, the Fiordland National Park, please. Pull up SkyScanner. Cheapest country, cheapest month.
I’ll spend hours, not dreaming of what I want to do next, but trying to plan it.
And here’s what happens:
Soft, tiny raindrops fall
to kiss my skin
and the whole earth
tingles,
like
I’d fallen asleep with my arms tucked in
and now they’re waking back up, like
birdsong on a rowdy day
reminding me the danger is gone, like
this peaceful prompting
from my waterproof self
that I am here
and listening.
This tiny rain
is so much more
than refreshing.
