Thank knees

I am grateful for my knees and the time to use them while they still work. I have hiked to ruins of castles, abandoned hillsides, fortresses and vista points that change the way I see the world. Whether up stairs or sloped inclines, raw paths or paved stones smoothed by time. I am grateful for what my knees provide me, for what they show me and what they allow me. Thank you knees.

I am grateful for my knees and the time to use them while they still work. I have hiked to ruins of castles, abandoned hillsides, fortresses and vista points that change the way I see the world. Whether up stairs or sloped inclines, raw paths or paved stones smoothed by time. I am grateful for what my knees provide me, for what they show me and what they allow me. Thank you knees. This is true now and always, but particularly when I am reminded that the world is a dangerous place. For some the wars of the world are not over and walking is much harder and even impossible for so many. I am grateful for my knees and the time to use them. PHOTO: Warning of landmines zone in the outskirts of Sarajevo, Bosnia, along a beautiful river. A place for a picnic in other times.

Happy Endings.

Of all the books and consequently the movies that have been made about women changing their lives, traveling the world and finding themselves, to only then find the man they are looking for... This has been so much more fortuitous, dramatic, action packed and glistening with lessons to be learned and rewards for risks taken. Elizabeth Gilbert, eat my dust! I have longed for this moment, thinking that forever I might live in the shadow of Eat, Pray, Love. While I may do all those things, it is not quite for me. And why is there still always the happy ending in a man's arms? Can't the journey and the adventure be enough for a good story and even a good movie? If it doesn't end in a man's arms is it not a valid journey? When will my story be worth writing? Or is it already? PHOTO: Sierra overlooking Split, Croatia, more beautiful than I had though possible.

Hello, Goodbye. Hello.

In a world where people move so far and so fast, in a world where a stranger can become a friend, it is not uncommon to say "Hello," "Goodbye," "Hello." It has been how my weeks have been since I started traveling 2 weeks ago. I have flown from NYC to Belgium where I rode around Brussels on a bike for a day then flew to Zagreb, Croatia. I made a friend in Samobor and hiked to an abandoned castle. I took a bus to a coastal town called Pula on the recommendation of this friend. It is the only other place where the Romans built a Colosseum outside of Rome. This one may be more impressive because it is pressed up against the sea that is a color blue I have never before seen. It is there that I met people that would become family for a moment while our paths crossed and we drove together down the Croatian coast, all in awe. From town to village to national park, we twisted and turned, laughed and ate well. At the parting we said "goodbye." And before I have laid my bags down again I had met a new family for another minute, and then another. And another and another. "Hello," "Goodbye," "Hello." I have worked my way all the way down the Croatian Coast. Stepped into Bosnia to see some of the recent history and feel the past in every breathe of the present and then returned to the water. Along the coast into Montenegro where I met another soul sister living and working, learning Serbian and remembering Chinese, trying to figure out where to move next. A story I know well. "Hello." "Goodbye." "Hello." Now just 24 hours out on my own, I have chosen not to connect even though opportunity presented itself. I have walked alone even though I have not gone more than a few hours with out a conversation with someone. "Hello," "Goodbye," "Hello." It is nice to be quiet. I wonder whose will be the next path I cross. "Hello," "Goodbye," "Hello." PHOTO from the bridge in Sarajevo where Gavrilo Princip shot Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand 1914.

God Bless America

After a full seven days back in the USA, after considerable time away, I feel like I should be settled. I am not, but largely because I am leaving again (in 11 hours). But also, I think that it might be an accumulation of subtle shifts in the earth's core or in my psychic space that have caused irrevocable change that I can feel so palpably that I cannot see clearly and certainly not think clearly. I think the moment when I knew that I was watching a sci-fi version of the world that I left was when I heard the following conversation: Upon greeting a group of old friends, "Oh is it so good to see you. How have you been?" to one friend and... "I don't need to hug you, I hugged you a few weeks ago" to another. These are the words that have irked me and literally woke me this morning with the dawn birds and have kept me up since. I come from a place where upon meeting a stranger we greet with a hug and a kiss. And the conversation goes like this: "Welcome home, Nice to meet you. We don't shake hands here." Hug and kiss. Am I alone my the horror of these words? "I don't need to hug you, I hugged you a few weeks ago" is a condemnation of what I value in humanity. It makes me want to wrap my arms around everyone and everything, to ask the world to climb up on my lap and nestle in under my chin; to snuggle and nap in a big cozy pile. I want to stroke the hair and kiss the forehead of every person on the planet, until they all know that any hug, every hug and from everybody is an essential human food-- if we have gone so far as to not crave, it is no wonder we are starving.

"Comme'er money; I wanna spend you!"

Inspirational words from a three-year-old send me out into the universe. "Comme'er money; I wanna spend you!" he says while shaking a pink bicycle-shaped piggy bank. Shake, shake. Rattle. Shake, shake. Bang, bang, bang. Shake, rattle, bang, shake-shake. Young Thatcher speaks wisdom, or rather puts words to a cultural craving, or our human core, gone global. He channels the cosmic voice while speaking to the coins inside. Shake, Shake, rattle-bang. The power of his words scatters out onto the kitchen table and tumbles to the floor. and silently a coin slides backwards out of the slot and onto his hand. A miracle. "Papa, Do it again!" He clutches the booty recently rescued from the abstinent piggy-bank. "What are you going to buy?" I ask. And like with any hard-won prize, the joy is in the effort, he says, "I don't know."

Waking Sleeping Dragons.

Standing on the precipice. Ready, or not quite, for the plunge, the next step, the leap into the unknown the abyss, the known abyss. Years of preparation for this moment and moments of thought and the a sporadic rash decision... that is the culmination of a life ... and there are the consequences, there below in little shards, scattered on the beach below in and amongst the rocks. In mid-breath, the rumble of future ramifications and then it is done, no turning back-- it has begun and ended in the same moment. Will the world shake?

As luck would have it

As luck would have it, it takes the end of the world for me to crawl out from under the rock I have been dwelling in. The sun is out and tanning my ankles. The tunes are softly blaring. The neighbors barbecue whits through he air and dances in the wind.
The fresh air recently washed by heavy rain storms danced through the spoon wind-chime. Flower vines slowly creep up the wall by the kitchen window and tomatoes ripen in the sun. the perfume from the plants feeds me.
The words tumble awkwardly from my lips like rocks from a landslide prone cliff. Precariously perched only held by insignificant particles of sand until the wind blows or a bird perches just so, and then sometimes one at a time, or all together, tumble, crash roar… the one that takes down the hillside, no matter what trees or houses may be in the path.
My words, when they are held too long are not smoothly eroding. When they are held in they fester and grow into disastrous , rapid monologues that can wipe out villages. For this reason I have begun to write… to ease the process and hopefully prevent tragedy.
As luck would have it, it takes the end of the world to revive me. Even if this is the only day, or the last day it should be a good one. Every day should be a good one. I have forgotten that. And that is a slippery slope, one that I was on the wrong end of… either top or bottom, it is the wrong end.
So here I sit. Clean, fresh, walked, accomplished. The dog has been walked, the cat has been to the vet, The shower has been taken and lunch has been had.
As luck would have it the confession turns into a realization, more profound than the thing most longed for. So unexpected. And so right. As luck would have it, when a routine is broken new seeds spring up everywhere. I can see them sprouting already and in so many corners that have been neglected. It is like the dust there has nourished them and with a little like and rain they are blooming into rich plants.
Soon they will nourish me and shade me. I will rest in the soft grass below these new plants. Much better than being under a rock, especially one of my own making.
As luck would have it, the last day before the end of the world is my first in ages.