but the morning light is only the first line in the play of this day

hello/goodbye
catching up with friends. today, i saw Y. an old friend who traveled with me through Guatemala. I don't get to see her often, but when i do, i always feel so lucky to have her in my life. her heart is always in the right place.

excited yet?
the short move to ny is slowly starting to seep in. my excitement is always, always delayed. i have also always been very cautious about my excitement that may revolve around the idea of expectations and disappointments. all new travels are accompanied by amazing growth, new experiences, tremendous adventures, yet i know myself enough to know that my solitary travels are always chaperoned by shards of stress, loneliness and at times extreme doubt. I invite it. i invite this- i am just cautious, as to prepare myself for my manic tendencies. no matter how short the trip, no matter how prepared you are- traveling alone never gets easier, but you also can never quite quit the addiction. Six years earlier, I associated moving as a means to starting over, brand new. I've since learned that its impossible to leave old scars behind. No matter where you are or where you go, things just don't disappear when you leave them behind. it follows you and follows you and follows you. but that was six years ago. today, i'm ready to tackle on the new.

ruminating
lots of personal projects. i can't wait to get them started.

tomorrow
i bask in the sweltering sun of palm springs before flying east.

another pretty poem by billy collins "the only day in existence"
the early sun is so pale and shadowy,
i could be looking up at a ghost
in the shape of a window,
a tall, rectangular spirit
looking down at me in bed,
about to demand that i avenge
the murder of my father.
but the morning light is only the first line
in the play of this day--
the only day in existence--
the opening chord of its long song,
or think of what is permeating
the thin bedroom curtains

as the beginning of a lecture
i will listen to until it is dark,
a curious student in a v-neck sweater,
angled into the wooden chair of his life,
ready with notebook and a chewed-up pencil,
quiet as a goldfish in winter,
serious as a compass at sea,
eager to absorb whatever lesson
this damp, overcast Tuesday
has to teach me
here in the spacious classroom of the world
with its long walls of glass,
its heavy, low-hung ceiling