Love thy strangers
The pavement is wet and smells like elementary school heads up seven up at recess, umbrellas dripping in tall vases by bell rigged storefront doors, plump rivulets of water streaming down steamed up attic windows. It smells like concrete and car oil and eucalyptus. It smells like seedlings stretching out their leaves and sighing chlorophyll-ish breath.
It has not rained in a month and tonight the black street glistens with promising dampness. The misty droplets hang in the air and populate the pools of orange beneath the street lights.
I walk out of the house on the corner on the hill, windows lit up with scattered lamps and glowing faces.
It is Sunday and I am happily tired and a little buzzed on good beer and companionship.
It is January and I am in love with San Diego artists, activists, foodies, writers.
I walk out of the house and my mind is buzzing with gatherings and formulating organizations, ideas, and flying to Kenya and delving into storied folds within my own hooded head.
There are some days when you want to hug everyone (and sometimes you do) and proclaim,
You are my people!
and you want to continue to hold space and dance in thoughts and talk in rhythms. You want to fold everyone into you pocket and take the energy, the goodness, the warmth and smiles with you into the night. And you pack up your bag and wrap your coat a little tighter and stride out the door knowing that they'll miss you too.
I drive: wipers flopping to and fro, dotted lines on the road melting into the shiny slick blackness of the asphalt, BBC tones on the radio reminding me of being at sea in the middle of the night in the middle of lots of water and little land.
I am smiling because a jar of honey sits on the seat next to me and words off other writers' pages trip through my head. I helped organize, cook for, make a success this Honeyfest and our goodbyes were full of hope and a sweet sadness. Then up the hill I sat on the floor of a house I'd never seen with dozens of others and listened to stories from trembling hands and open hearts.
I don't know (many) most of them, but these, at least for this night, this moment, are my people. Just as the rain sinks into the soil and nourishes the seedlings, I can feel this community feeding my roots, allowing me to grow stronger and deeper every day.
It has not rained in a month and tonight the black street glistens with promising dampness. The misty droplets hang in the air and populate the pools of orange beneath the street lights.
I walk out of the house on the corner on the hill, windows lit up with scattered lamps and glowing faces.
It is Sunday and I am happily tired and a little buzzed on good beer and companionship.
It is January and I am in love with San Diego artists, activists, foodies, writers.
I walk out of the house and my mind is buzzing with gatherings and formulating organizations, ideas, and flying to Kenya and delving into storied folds within my own hooded head.
There are some days when you want to hug everyone (and sometimes you do) and proclaim,
You are my people!
and you want to continue to hold space and dance in thoughts and talk in rhythms. You want to fold everyone into you pocket and take the energy, the goodness, the warmth and smiles with you into the night. And you pack up your bag and wrap your coat a little tighter and stride out the door knowing that they'll miss you too.
I drive: wipers flopping to and fro, dotted lines on the road melting into the shiny slick blackness of the asphalt, BBC tones on the radio reminding me of being at sea in the middle of the night in the middle of lots of water and little land.
I am smiling because a jar of honey sits on the seat next to me and words off other writers' pages trip through my head. I helped organize, cook for, make a success this Honeyfest and our goodbyes were full of hope and a sweet sadness. Then up the hill I sat on the floor of a house I'd never seen with dozens of others and listened to stories from trembling hands and open hearts.
I don't know (many) most of them, but these, at least for this night, this moment, are my people. Just as the rain sinks into the soil and nourishes the seedlings, I can feel this community feeding my roots, allowing me to grow stronger and deeper every day.
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