The hope in mid-day sun. The feel of weathered tempera. The weight of language. The warmth of community. The sound of fireworks, so close you can touch the sparks. The layering of freckles. The treachery of cobblestones. The look and feel of tradition. The bond of music. The taste of mango juice on sun-warmed skin. The texture of shadow. The evolution of colors. The audacity of pigeons. The grace in a smile. The heat of the dance floor. The freedom of nights alone. The opportunities in a breath. The luxury of water. The influence of rooftop mojitos. The inspiration of transformation. The solidarity of women. The possibilities of light.
A combination of love and loss stopped my writing over a decade ago and righteous angst resulted in two garbage bags full of shredded journal pages. Now life and technology offer a new direction, where words no longer serve as the balm for fear.
The theme of the last year has been learning to have faith - in myself, in life, in the people I care about, and in the work that I do. I thought I had a pretty good idea about what my life was going to be like, until I became trapped in the comfort of familiarity.
Now, I am collecting myself. In preparation. For something I can't quite see. It shimmers like a mirage, but I feel it ahead of me. In the desert.