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the day of love

another world.

shhhh.


can you hear it?
can you hear the
moving
shifting
coming
turning…?

can’t you?
can’t you hear it?


in the spontaneous purchased flowers.
in the friend’s honest answer.
in the shaky ‘no’ exercised today.
in your newest idea.
in the chance encounter.

yes. 
there it is now.
you can feel it.
you can.

in that moment with the radio.
in your boy’s innocent question.
in the rhythm of typing keys.
in the brighten candle.
in the rise and fall of your breath.

another world.
it’s brewing.
if you listen
{and you must listen}
we can hear her breathing . . .

 – n.

necessary mornings.

some mornings there
is only one thing
that can
possibly be done.

so when the
weather gauge
is lamenting the tale
of negative numbers.

when that long lost
white substance
is making it’s
fall to join us on earth.

one must take
the necessary steps
this sort of morning presents.

put on the kettle.
snuggle into your best scarf.
tuck the laptop under your arm.
and start the day

and don’t forget
your cuppa
tea.

little bit of everything

just a moment with my radio.

It doesn’t happen that often. Just sometimes. But when it does, there is something profound and sacred which makes me want to stop everything and just listen. Every other task becomes menial and the final destination seems to matter very little, if at all. A spell. Yes, that’s what happens, a spell comes over me, just like in the fairytales. This of course, only confirms those great works of literature are obviously nonfiction.


You know this feeling? I’m sure you must, it’s when a song. A song, not known to you makes its maden voyage into your hungry eardrums. The first encounter. When the musician and instruments and you are the only things in existence.


Yes, that moment.
Common on. We both know.
It’s magic.

ask a good question, please.

From a very early age we learn there is no such thing as a bad or stupid question. This is truly a shame, because we all know that this is a completely preposterous notion. 


Of course there are horrid questions. People practice asking them routinely. These sneaky little buggers of bad questions seem to show themselves frequently when encountering an individual just returning from travel. They don’t mean to come out, but they do. They just can’t help it.


Typically they go something like this:


“So, how was it?”
“Did you have fun?”
“What was your favorite part?”
“You went somewhere, right?”


And for this kind of question asking, I must repent. Because I, and probably like you, am guilty.


So what to do? How can one know what to ask anyway? It is not often, after all, that one has been the recipient of a perfect question.


Perfection can be so tricky.


So, when my friend saddled up to me, just days after returning from my most recent Spain adventures, and offered a:


“So tell me! What were the colors of Spain?”


I knew, with slight envy and complete admiration . . . she had done it. 
Perfection in question asking.


I knew it was that elusive perfection of question in a moment, why? Because I couldn’t answer right away. 


So after a deep breath and a long thought . . . 
I told her all about the colors I saw.




r e d . . . .
walls stucco walls. closely tucked together buildings. winter coats worn by locals. santa claus’ hanging from balconies.

o r a n g e . . . .
decorative tiled every-things. blooming, boasting, beaming flowers. juice drank in the mornings.

w h i t e . . . .
loafs and loafs of bread consumed. stacks and stacks of cheese enjoyed. blinking and twinkling lights of Christmas. seashells.

y e l l o w . . . .
beach chairs and tea mugs. the morning light. the siesta sun. and the beams proceeding dusk. all gathering in my lens.

b l u e . . . .
the sky meeting the ocean. the sky meeting the ocean. the sky meeting the ocean.

See? The perfect question could take you anywhere.
May we learn how to ask . . .


– n.

sparklers

one should always celebrate

a birthday of the past

there was a year. 
one of the middle years of my college going.
that my world came apart. 
this was my first time.
perhaps that’s why it hurt
so much.


the people i thought were “my people” 
suddenly weren’t. 
and i was hurt beyond repair. 
i was loyal, yet was lied to. 
i pressed into hard places,
and i was left standing.


alone.


looming ahead of me and that shattered mess
was my birthday.


so when my mom called
and kindly inquired of me 
what i was planning to do with my friends
for my birthday


i hesitated. 


i couldn’t lie to her. 


so instead
i sobbed. 


because those who i wanted
to celebrate with me, 
weren’t even looking at me. 
wouldn’t even stand
in the same room as me.


sometimes it’s hard to know.
hard to know when it’s the time.
the time to rescue.


and from what i’ve learned from
watching my own mother
as well as my friend’s who wear the
“mom” tag,
it’s a mother’s hard work to know
when those times are,
but


not to worry.
she said.
stay right where you are.
i’m coming.


and that very night
she swooped in and enlisted
the ladies.


that night.
the ladies celebrated me.


they surrounded me.
they toasted me.
they ate with me.
they drank with me.
they laughed with me.
and they were oh so very merry with me.

they told me: 
this is who you are.
this is what your about.


they reflected back to me
what my bruised soul couldn’t see.
they gently picked up
the pieces of me that had be trampled to the ground.


the ladies,
who illustrated ages
scattering upwards a few years from my own,
they defined for me that night
what birthdays are really all about.


to be seen.
to be seen.
sometimes a bit battered
and bruised.
but still resilient.




sometimes in those moments
you just know
that you are 
absolutely
positively
the luckiest person on earth.


cheers.


see?
even years later
i still drink to that.
and those ladies.


to this next trip around the sun
{i’ll keep you posted},




– n.

midwest bound

last night
after days without
horizontal sleep,
countless delays,
hours of tarmac waiting,
enough dashing through

airports
to quench any marathon runner…

i had finally made it.
to the very
last leg of my
return
home journey.

breathless and sweat-full
my terminal sprinting
ended as i deflated
in front of the final
gate.
chicago to minneapolis.

the airline worker
looked over her glasses at me,
pitifully.

“you missed it” she said.

“but isn’t that the plane?”
i ask.

{some ultimatums
must be questioned.}

“and besides, it’s 7:58 and the
plane doesn’t take off for
another 6 minutes.”

the airline worker’s eyes
locked with mine.

{the starring over the glasses
was beginning
to get old.}

she agreed to check
if the gate was open.

it was.

i’d made it.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
traveling.

such a gift.
the chance to leave what is
here.
and go.
just go.
to see and explore and wonder
and test and search and marvel.

there is nothing quite like it.
especially
when you know
precisely
what home is like.
what you’ve missed.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

sneaking onto the aircraft
not a moment too late,
i approached cautiously.

the plane was
of course
full of eager travelers,
who had been on time.
who were waiting.
ready to get on with their journeys.

the situation had potential to be
intimidating.

the stares.
the glares.
because after all.
being THE ONE.
THE ONE
the late one.
the holding-up-the-plane one.
the your-tardiness-is-foiling-my-connection one.
never a good
position.

but.
intimidating and scornful
looks did not greet me.
only smiles,
nods of approval,
and congratulatory
last minute plane-catching
compliments
were doled my way
as i,
still short of breath,
found my way down the aisle.

and when seat 26A was
doubled booked
and i had no where to sit,
3 rows in all directions
of concerned travelers
found another seat for me.
all before
a flight attendent even
knew there was an issue.

the midwest
truly welcomed me home.

and while
even though it felt
like my time traveling was
too short
and it was hard to leave.
to say goodbye.

it’s good to be back.

as for last night.
dear United 959 plane-mates,
thanks for the
warm welcome.
home.

– n.

ps
stay tuned for
tales of the past weeks.
of meeting
christmas-ing
traveling
new years-ing
tappas-ing
and sunning.
with sister & parents
and a bunch of Oxford MBAs.

happy christmas: i am home.