distillation of everything that matters

The next step.  

London was made anew in the afterglow of the camino, a far cry from the previous homecoming.  The cosmopolitan metropolis put its Sunday best and all that transpired reformed a once closed chapter to a door left ajar.  The short time spent was a whirlwind of nameless emotion, an exploration of the unknown in a strikingly familiar setting.  Everything absorbed through two pairs of eyes, two beating hearts.  

Sentimental intoxication gained momentum in the week that followed within the backdrop of southern France.  Much of the pervading stillness was interrupted by my now racing thoughts and the desire to grasp onto a moment in time.  Nature offered its bounty as I bore witness to the varied shades of a life that permeated my interest.  The impending departure was greeted like that of a petulant child.  I was in paradise, my soul electrified.  

“…A te regarder

danser et sourire

Et a t'écouter

Chanter et puis rire

Laisse-moi devenir

L'ombre de ton ombre

L'ombre de ta main…”

Any lessons of equanimity were swiftly kicked to the curb in the midst of uncertainty.  My return to America represented more than the immersion of family and friends; it was the end of an era and my greatest test thus far.

First stop: Pittsburgh- where my dear hermano takes residence.  The woman at the airport shuttle counter sizes me up to be the “Eat, Pray, Love lady” and wishes me luck with my life with a sweet degree of sincerity.  I had almost forgotten that Americans can be so friendly.  Even sweeter was the time spent with my almost genetic double after an all too long period of absence.  Although exploration never exceeded farther than my legs could carry me, I found myself in constant company of towering trees, open minds, and the pangs of tears with the re-emergence of Atticus Finch. Over the finest French cheese, my brother asserts what I already know but have temporarily lost under piles of preoccupation and dare I say worry.  With my batteries charged he bids me farewell and I head home.

Holland, Michigan holds mottled memories at every turn.  All that has been collected over the last year of travel is now put on a robust trial.  Admittedly, my mental faculties are the primary source of resistance.  Sure, the Mitt Romney signs are disconcerting, but the ever-present conservatism never comes as a surprise.  Amongst faces and landmarks I see traces of a history that seems to belong to someone else.  Now, surrounded by incredible love and lakes to match, it is up to me to make the most of my time here…to separate what I think I know from what is actually just staying present. So I enter this stage with the resolve to firmly anchor myself to distillation in the hopes of spreading the wealth.