Thursdays

Am I the only one who feels like Thursdays are a natural affront to humanity?

They're just hard.  They're grey and blah and tend to remind me of all the things I want that I don't have, instead of reminding me to be thankful for everything I do have.

"But failure is not an option, littlest one."

Today, on my lunchbreak, I sit at my sturdy yet stylish wooden desk, drinking an Evolution carrot-orange-mango juice I purchased from Starbucks this morning even though it's making my stomach hurt.

I'm also struggling with the realization that indulging in Starbucks every morning on my way to work without a partner discount is far too expensive a habit to grow comfortable with.  I'm also acknowledging the grave fact that it has already become a habit I've grown too comfortable with, and I accept my comfort all-too-easily.

This is bad.

But my triple grande soy real caramel sauce lattes are good. And I am conflicted.

Therein lies the crux of the human race.

I've been biting my fingernails a lot, lately.  This is usually a sign that my anxiety is bubbling underneath the surface again.  Although, this time, I'm not sure it's anxiety- I have a distinct feeling it might be restlessness.

The seasons are changing again, lovers- the sun is re-emerging and the cherry trees are beginning to bloom.  Everytime I see a cherry tree I think of the line in a Pablo Neruda poem that reads "I want to do with you what Spring does with the cherry trees."

I am arrested, body and soul, by that line.

I am arrested, body and soul, then, by the sight of cherry blossoms blooming on these Portland city streets.

These arrests often cause the deepest sense of wanderlust within me.  It is often the simplest sights, the most non-profound phrase, the most ordinary beauty which sends me reeling into the desire to uproot, to leave, to be caught in the gentle breezes of the Spring and to return only when I have changed forever.

My mind keeps straying distractedly to that plane ticket I've promised myself to buy by the end of 2013.  Where will I go?  What shall I see?  Whom shall I meet?

The game of indecision and the thrill of the unknown cause my feet to tap repeatedly against the leg of my desk.  Anxiety?  Anticipation?

I feel a movement underneath my feet, lovers.  I don't know from where it has come- or to where it will take me.  Things are shifting.  The earth is rotating so overwhelmingly fast.  It's all a spectacle.

We are a spectacle!

I remember faces.  Faces from my favorite memories- faces I can't help but feel that I will see again soon.  Therefore my bottom lip is chewed over frantically by my shining teeth. Excitement?  Wanderlust?

Discernment?  Prophecy?  Faith?

Foreshadowing?

Spectacles.  Life is a spectacle. 

Spectacles like the ones which some of us vision-impaired wear on our faces.

Are they not a filter through which to see the world? A clear invisible lens which causes the blurry to become focused- the unknown to become familiar.

Spectacles. I am a spectacle- you are a spectacle- the cherry blossoms are tiny pink spectacles.

Like the rose-tinted glasses through which dirty poetic beatniks view life- la vie en rose is a spectacle, too.

 See, this is why I like you, lovers.

Cherish the people you can truly think out loud in front of.

I cherish you. I do. 

And even though it's a thoroughly-un-therapeutic-Thursday, it's still a spectacle.  And the universe will still find ways to inspire me.

The filtering Springtime sunlight will illuminate the city sidewalks with a  fleeting sort of caress, and the thrill of unforeseen adventures will guide me home.

"You were given life; it is your duty (and also your entitlement as a human being) to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight."
-Elisabeth Gilbert, Eat Pray Love.

So take that, Thursday.  I have not had my spectacular way with you, yet.

Xx,

Hannah

An Inspiration

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.


If You Forget Me- Pablo Neruda

Friend.

Thought about you for the first time in a long time today.  I still miss you. It's quieter now, and it doesn't hurt anymore.  But you're still there, in the mixed-up dusty corners of my soul. I think you always will be.  I'm happy that you're gone- and I'm happy that we don't need each other anymore- but I also want you to know that I never meant to let you go. Leaving you behind, was something I never wanted to do. I believe with all of my being that had circumstances been different, and situations altered, we would have made it.  And we would have been happy.  And eventually, someday, there would have been that cute little house with the crash-couch for our friends. We were not ill-fated, but our timing was wrong.  I was not wrong for you and you were not wrong for me, but we weren't ready. Things are different now.  I live in a world entirely apart from yours, and that's okay.  It's not sad anymore.  In fact, I'm happy these days.  Real happy. I hope you're happy, too. Honest.  You taught me so much about myself- you were the best platform from which to jump beyond all of my self-doubt, and my insecurity. Just know that every time I hear a Styx song on the radio, I think of you, and I smile.  And every time someone tells me about one of their heroes, I think of that summer, during that very significant time of my life, in which you were mine. And every time I remember the smell of that restaurant, and the look on your face- I close my eyes and pretend that when I open them I'll be looking into the greatest pair of eyes I've ever seen, one last time. It's funny, now, realizing that I can't move forward without saying goodbye. I think for awhile there, I thought I could just distract myself until I had forgotten.
Well, distractions, they come and they go, and while they're exciting and beautiful and I accept their presence in my life and the significance they hold in taking me further from you- I still couldn't bring myself to say goodbye fully until right now, not until right after today.

So this is goodbye, friend.

You are golden- and my memories of you are laced with fireworks and diamonds.

Please, stay like that always.

With your hands behind your back as you coast down the avenue, whistling the overture from "You Can Fly!" like you were on the very first night I met you.

You are a perfect representation of the Peter Pan who would have returned with the others to be adopted by the Darlings.  You are Peter Pan, if Peter Pan had decided to grow up, and you were so crucial in the process of growing me up, too.

Which is good, because we both know I needed it.

Be seeing you-

Goodbye.