For a year during which I passed two springs, I really have insisted on going to places to test myself against the extreme cold.

Armed with travel talismans and a passport for which we had to buy a plane ticket for (yes, getting your passport mailed to you same day is like buying a seat for it on an airplane), I watched Orion's Belt appear to my right at 5:30pm as we traveled northward. The sky is deep purple and the Adirondacks are piled softly with snow.

My passport, from which I had to tear out two visas to make room for more stamps after Chilean customs officers scolded me for not having room, sits warmly in my right pocket. Every "meal" we have eaten today has involved at least one food covered in chocolate. The trees, our old friends, line the sides of the icy roads and greet us with branches wide open.

So, wide openly we go.

(a happy new year awaits)

Rowan Ricardo Phillips, as told to Words Without Borders:

This isn't meant to minimize all of the heartbreak that has taken place in New York during my lifetime. But how do you itemize, much less form a superlative, from that? Heartbreak, like all conjugations, exists so that we can speak.


also, as part of the same series, Mathea Harvey on New York City's mood:

I’m very aware that my mood colors what I perceive as the mood of the city. It’s constantly shifting. On a good day, I see people singing in their cars, a beautiful old lady with braided white hair taking two identical dachshunds for a walk, and I sniff the bacon-and-egg-scented air coming from the deli wafting down into the subway with delight. Those are days when New York seems to thrum with possibility and wonder. On a bad day, people on the subway look angry and tired and everything smells of feet. I gave that realization to Roboboy (a half-robot half-human character in my second to last book of poems—Modern Life). He’s trying to understand the word “subjectivity” and his friend explains: “You know how if you’re in a bad mood a wet dog looks one way and if you’re in a good mood it looks another? It’s like wearing tinted gasses, only on the inside.” It’s really all about where your eyes fall.

the eve of christmas eve involved baking red velvet cookies and eating close to 15 of them, wrapping presents clumsily in foil lined gift wrap paper that was 10% off at Target, walking in the rain, yoga class set to Beyonce songs, homemade pozole, Love Actually (is all around), and, yes, amazing live banjo playing by bearded men from Pennsylvania. and that, that's how you do the eve of christmas eve.

“It’s not enough to say the heart wants what it wants. I think of the ravine, the side dark with pines where we lounged through summer days, waiting for something to happen; and of the nights, walking the long way home, the stars so close they seemed to crown us. Once, I asked for your favorite feeling. You said hunger. It felt true then. It was as if we took the bit and bridle from our mouths. From that moment I told myself it was the not yet that I wanted, the moving, the toward—”

— Mary Szybist, from “To Gabriela at the Donkey Sanctuary,” in Incarnadine: Poems (Graywolf Press, 2013)

Crooked cards and straight whiskey,
Slow horses and fast women.

Kenneth Rexroth

i guess, wherever we are traveling, and in whatever direction, and towards what (a destination? an emotion? power? a goal?)- we all want the same damn thing.

when we were driving to Vermont, i liked that the windows were down and the leaves would greet us mutely in less than muted tones of yellow and red. in between bouts of launching into off-tune singing of whatever was playing on the radio, i stuck my fingers out the window (the way my parents always scolded me about not doing!) and wove them through the air.

the passing coolness would ripple across my skin, and giddyly, stubbornly, i kept my fingers outside. equal parts full, and filling.

i checked outside.
leaves still reaching toward the sky like my grasping fingers.

something mended at that moment at the same time, something else broke. something along the lines of hearts, and walls.

i wrote to a friend today about the holiday season:

as cynical as we all can be about the modern world we live in, and as cheesy as it may be to write about this-

i am really happy that there are different instruments playing holiday songs every day in the lobby of my office downstairs. there is a harp today, playing with a violin and flute. yesterday there was a string quartet. pachelbel canon almost made me cry, a little. 

in the tunnels there are carolers. and singers. and jazz guitarists. 

sometimes i know it's hard to believe that this tradition still exists, and maybe we can make fun of it a little, but i am so happy during this time of year. everyone says hi to each other, and is cheerful, and talks about presents, and their kids, and their families. people wear their ugly christmas sweaters and santa hats. we share chocolate, cookies, hot cocoa. my coworker has Linus's Christmas tree on her desk.  there is that buzz in the air, that words can't describe. some combination of happiness, hope, excitement...

it moves me so much to be around so much cheer. i keep thinking, what if we practiced this attitude all year? one of anticipation, one of gratitude, one of closeness, one of commonality and community. wouldn't the world be a better place?

honestly, i can think of a hundred cynical ways to retort to myself about this, but really. everyone's attitude is so authentic that it just makes me smile. 

on a somewhat related note, Amanda (you can find her here and here) sent this to me today. Vienna Teng, one of my overall favorite musical artists, continues to exhibit authenticity in everything she does. The video is inpsiring. i relate to it, and think about how this past week i tried to explain to someone the feeling of letting go when you dance, and also that dance changed (and saved) my life. 

"Humanity may let you down; you may let yourself down," Teng says. "That's not important at the end of the day. What's important is that you have a sense of possibility, that you can look around and be amazed at how far we have come, even though we have farther to go."

he wrote to me on the first day I arrived in South America, that this year I would pass two springs.

and what astonishing beginnings they have been...

it is so very quiet when the wind dies down.

it is strange how the wind can be at times strong enough to topple you, and at others as gentle as the ripples it creates in the water


we walk the beaches when the tide is low, talking about the existence of soulmates, how best to roast marshmallows, our favorite vegetables, how to tell the difference between a male and a female king penguin, and other important inanities. the eternal sunshine spoils us, as we find sunsets that stretch interminably into the hours of 10 and 11 in the evening.

i have never had so much time to think.
as you can imagine, all-day hiking and sitting in a car are pretty thought-provoking activities.

tells a lot about a person, what occupies their mind during the longest hours of daylight. tells a lot about a person, when they choose to speak and when they choose to be silent. when they choose companionship, and when they choose to walk alone.