07/08/2019
Books were rearranged and the walls got painted. Rituals evolved. But never did they happen without questions and discomfort. No matter how many centuries of exposure our generation has, children growing and leaving their nests to shape their own destinies are still hard to swallow. The colors of sun-kissed skin and summer skies and ombrellini open us up, but damn we curl in cocoons, sometimes weep, when roofs and roots suddenly get enveloped in white. More cars crowd the highways. Temperatures stretch into extremes. No, I tried but i just can’t eat meat anymore. I moved on. He moved on. I feel my body now and it took time to be here.
Lessons during travel are always treasured. May they never be lost in the swift and blurry passing of days. But even travel has shifted its meaning in my life. It stopped being the movement from one place to another or from movement from outer to inner. Travel has become another form of breath, and that meant a normality, a way of living, the learning passage, a type of sandwich eaten on lunches at the park. It is the fisherman setting out at sea all the dawns of his life. As we all experience, traveling intersects across perspectives and projections, and so now, it is less romanticized for me, but more taken in plain truth in the grand scheme of things. “It is not consolation. It is light”, as Simone Weil had put it, albeit she referred to love. Furthermore, she wrote in her reflections, “So we have to die in order to liberate a tied up energy, in order to possess an energy which is free and capable of understanding the true relationship of things.” Life in death.
More shedding at artofmovement.space. If curiosity for a new story calls you: https://www.artofmovement.space/blog/2019/8/3/re-imagining-fireflies-in-fantasies-what-travel-and-writing-are-not-anymore