November

I was never lost. I have sat and stood and walked and ran on this planet for twenty-six years. I know the cracks in the sidewalks well enough to trip both on the east coast and the west coast. I know the nighttime silence enough to sleep in a city or a forest. I’ve slept in beds, on chairs, in sleeping bags. I’ve slept in libraries, in cars, in places where I’m not welcome. I’ve done it all and it’s all the same. But it’s beautiful, sometimes, to sleep in a car on a different city street or walk on a new surface like the sand on the beach in the sunlight. It’s nice because we are here so long so why not explore the whole home. We truly have a big home with such variety from room to room. We are lucky to be here.

So I was never lost and I discovered that while traveling alone. I’ve sat on an airplane speaking to a stranger while my eyes were drying from a good “I hate everything, it’s good to get away” cry. (At that point I hadn’t realized there’s no getting away- there’s just experiencing beautiful variety). And when I spoke to that stranger, he was just like every other human I’ve met.

Within two hours of being in an unexplored city, I met someone from another city I hadn’t explored and put him in my car. And when I drove and walked with that stranger, he was just like every other human I’ve met.

Upon leaving my new acquaintance on Burnside Street, I ate lunch in a neighborhood that was like other neighborhoods I’ve encountered on the other side of the country, but I did meet a human that was a new kind of variety for me, which was beautiful. Her dreadlocks were to the floor, tattoos covered her arms and forehead, and she said to me, “the water is a little bit cloudy because there’s oxygen in it.” And then she was a known human to me. And now I hope I will see her marching down South Street with cloudy water in her water bottle.

Then I went to the urban farm where I was lucky enough to rest my head for the weekend. And I wasn’t concerned. I’ve slept on benches, on bathroom floors, about twenty feet from the blood of a murdered man. The family was beautiful, the house was beautiful, the tea leaves that I scooped gently into my farm mason jar was beautiful. I asked where the compost pile was. I asked for a relaxing vista. He gave me directions to a beautiful place. Up the mountain I circled and saw a view similar to all of the ones on the other side of my home. But this was different because it was here and I was here and the eerie fog was here. And I was alone and that was the best part.

So then I drove around that city familiarizing myself with each neighborhood tucked between the stunningly gorgeous industrial areas. Those were my favorite. If I could move one thing from one side of the country to the other, it would be those industrial areas with their steam stacks and warehouses. Their bridges and bright stabbing yellow nighttime lights.

I called it a night. We live in a big home. I was tired from my travels.

And then I woke up earlier than anyone else and wrote a poem about the beautiful silence paired with that one lone trainsound that met my ears now and then. It was enchanting.. even though the sound was comparable to two times when I lied in similar beds in similar temperatures in spots on this planet I called home ages ago.. but because the notch was turned slightly to the right a little more than ever before and the industrial district lied to the south, it was a new type of beautiful.

The next day a beautiful young man in the Southeast gave me a green tea matcha latte and the best dark french toast I’ve ever had covered in coconut and pecans. His smile was perfect. His joke about the music playing was perfect. Every little thing was more perfect than the thing before it. But I had to leave. There’s lots of leaving in familiarizing yourself with our gigantic mountain. It’s sad, but there will be more perfect smiles and perfect jokes.

I went to the art museum and it was as beautiful as the art museum on the east wing museum that I’m most accustomed to. I stared at the Monet like I stared at Monet over there. I stared at Renoir like I stared at Renoir over there. The Munch, I stood in front of it like every other time. But this was different because it was here. This was different because the brushstrokes fell in a unique pattern.
But then I met a new thing that I hadn’t met before and when it shook my hand it was horrifying. An art exhibit unlike the others I’ve meandered through. There were loud murderous sounds and dead men lying between the pink blades of grass. My eyes were wide and my heart was thumping. And as I walked away, I said to myself in my head, “how am I supposed to recover from that?” And it was beautiful.

So I went to a place where I always find comfort- the bookstore. And when I walked back to the car in the spritzing rain.. I felt at peace. I spent the rest of the day exploring the art district and an artfully funky town in the northern part of the city. And I discovered something unique after all of the walking I’d been doing.

These people, they don’t use umbrellas. Even in a downpour the men, the women, the children rode around on their headlight - lit bicycles like it was a sunny day in the summer. And as they trekked down the sidewalks.. the held their heads high, not downward to avoid the cold water from irritating their eyes. It was endearing. City inhabitants that loved their city so much that even the rain had embedded it’s way into their souls. This was normal to them. I wonder if they’d be at awe of the hundreds of umbrellas decorating my streets when the drizzles begin.

I tried to be like them. I left my umbrella in my car. And it was beautiful.

Then I went to a comedy show and it was fairly lackluster compared to the ones I experienced on the east wing of the country. But I laughed extra hard when the jokes were extra good because I was here, not on the east wing of the country.

When I woke up the next day, there were three new people and a dog in the farmhouse. They were more like people from my mom and dad’s hometown. Not many words to offer. But that’s okay, Fia, Xoco and their parents chatted my ear up beautifully for the duration of my stay. I liked knowing there were more people in the home. The sense of community grew even larger.

My next breakfast was just as perfect as the previous. The mocha was the best I’ve ever had because it was the first time I’ve ever had coffee roasted from this specific roaster. The latte art was perfect. The crepe was perfect.

Then things got a little weird after my trip across a bridge to look at another bridge that I had fallen in love with. As I walked to the market, I discovered something new. Hundreds of homeless people under and near and wandering within close proximity of the bridge. They had their shopping carts, their bags. They had their beards, their long hair. I’m from a city where homeless are everywhere. I know how to look at the ground, look to the left, lower my eyebrows. I know how to say “sorry I don’t have anything on me.” And just like on my side of the planet, there was that one exceptionally crazy homeless woman who went off on me. And as I departed from the bridge area, I smiled, because homeless people are the same everywhere in our home.