Thoughts from the plane, en route to Penticton, British Columbia, for #WBC13:
Here amongst the clouds –with strange memory quilts of land spread irregularly inside bowls of land encircled by blackened hills seemingly a million miles below, and yet somehow almost close enough to reach out and touch– it is easy to dismiss the purposes of travel.
Up here, where proofs of gods are abundant, and life hangs by two wings, it is easy to question one’s adventure, and the many folds that guide it. Eightfold or otherwise, the path seen from above appears both more winding, and more obvious, all at once.
Hours upon hours, everyday; my fingers on these keys, and for what?
These snow-crested peaks reach towards me not to offer landing space, but to break past me, to find the sun beyond my shadow. These crystalline and placid blue bodies reflect me back to myself not to teach a lesson, but to remove one. These vast and balding hillscapes, these wide and barren valleys; they make patterns where there’s nothing; they make nothing where there’s nothing, they make patterns for the mediums to translate.
This is how one’s mind runs on a plane. This is how self-doubt defies gravity. It rises with you, unencased, presents you with the beauty of the earth, and asks you to consider why you even choose to breathe, let alone to write.
But as I look back on these paragraphs, I note the words that here appear: land, life, adventure, sun & shadow; the beauty of the earth.
This life is nourishment, and poetry its tasting note.