Roman Candles

The way sunlight filters through maple trees in September.  Just before they turn yellow fully.

That liquid, listless ray of gold and the remnants of early morning's fog burning off to make way for the rest of the day...

Where does it go?  How does it burn?

These are the same questions I asked myself about you.

The way sunlight filters through maple trees in September reminds me of the way I ran as a child to the strong pillars of comfort in my family.

To my sister, calm and rooted in laughter.

To my parents, nurturing and smothering and rooted in worry but also love.

The way the sunlight heats the patch of denim exposed to its beam as I sit here by this window and it constricts and heats and begins to itch and burn the skin underneath reminds me of the way I'm running away from the over-arches and bridles of home.

Where do you go?  How do you burn?

Where do I go?  How do I ignite?

Nebulous expanses of time and gravity and single cells and shafts of flagrant, vagrant light whirl and blend in a spectacle of gypsy magic, tragedy, passion, first meals and last meals, first meetings and last meetings, first memories and final partings.... And I'm frozen in time.

I'm suspended in motion.

I'm caught in a crossfire.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I- I took the one with fewer trees.

Fewer shafts of glittering, laughing, filtering sunlight.

Less spectacle.  More deliberateness.

My road has taken me to the edge of a ravine.  I have reached my grand canyon of light and I catapult over the dizzying cliffside and explode into the air.

A magnificent Roman Candle, errupting violently into the starry night sky.

Come.

Burn with me.

Things I Need To Remember

Time heals.

Cells regenerate.

Stars are born.

The liquid gold scent of hayfields at dusk.

 God covers us when we step out in faith.

Puffins mate for life.

There will never actually be a day when the music dies.

Saltwater stings.

He is not my everything.

Soulmates are everywhere.

Driving calms.

My mother loves me unconditionally.

Shut windows can always be opened.

I inhale oxygen into my lungs and I exhale carbon dioxide.

Cuddling my 9 month old nephew is a small fulfillment of the desires of my heart.

I am worth all of it.

The sun is always shining, even behind the clouds.

Everyone has at least one guardian angel.

Compassion is everything.

Everything will be okay in the end, if it's not okay, it's not the end.

Sept 18th.

Lovers,

Happiest of September 18ths to you.

I'm currently sitting in front of a very large and intimidating macbook pro in my sister's cozy green office, in the middle of her colonial, New England-style home at her brand new Massachussetts address, and wondering just what it would take for me to get to this place in life someday.

Lovers, I have fallen in love with the East Coast.

I know I say the phrase "I have fallen in love" more than the average person should in their lifetime, but this time I really mean it.

The air here is thick with the desire to write.

Every single day I've been here my mind has been buzzing with overwhelming and distracting rabbit trails.

I was making cookies earlier this evening and I couldn't even do that without outlining a miniature sitcom-esque dialogue in my mind about a reunion and an argument and a pair of decadent brown eyes the same color of chocolate chips.

I halfway considered writing it down.

Luckily, I reconsidered.  It was cheesy with a side of nauseating. But still.  It was there, and I haven't been doing that sort of plot developing in years.

I even pulled out my notebook in a coffee shop, surrounded by my family members and wrote for a solid 10 minutes, completely ignoring their presence.

I've never had the balls to do that.  Even though I've had the desire to tune them all out and write down my thoughts more times than I can count.

I finally did it. Something about the way that even the sunlight filters through the trees here is different than the west coast, and it inspires me to no end.

The first thing I told my sister the morning after our plane landed was "Hallie, I could write here."

And she told me she felt the same way, for the first time in 6 years.

Not to mention the Atlantic Ocean is teeming with powerful reflection.

The Pacific Ocean captures my heart and my feelings and the way my blood coarses through my veins.

But the Atlantic Ocean captures and reflects all the shadows of my mind, and that is so much more important to a writer, because finding a place that mirrors your genius, your very psyche, is extremely rare.

I don't want to leave here.

I want to relocate here.  Semi-immediately.

Distractions, distractions, distractions.

God just keeps sending them full-throttle into my life.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever actually accomplish my original goal: Ballymaloe.

It's like, the road to get there has taken me through all of these random pit-stops, captured in essence by beach towns and memorable visitors, unforgettable locals, schools, vacations and now a writer's paradise.... I've gotten so lost in the moment I've forgotten where I'm going.

And yet there's still a small voice in the back of my mind whispering for me to stop worrying about it.

The road is long.  The journey is unwritten. I'm one of those people who needs distractions in order to passionately focus on the end goal.

And maybe the end goal isn't even the end goal.  Maybe the end goal is just a door through which to pass into my beautiful and distraction-laced future.

I could get used to that.

Who says I can't be free?

Goodnight, lovers-

Sweet dreams.