Skip to content

I Am Enraptured.

5 February 2013

Another winter drive from Middle America to the East Coast awaits me next week. The beginning of a long pause for breath between professional engagements. Midwestern winters are enthralling from the road. Break-wedges of Canada geese aloft on frigid updrafts. Raptors in solitary vigils alongside the long highway. All of Nation Aves mustering against the cold. Everything brittle with ice, an impossible world of frozen things glittering.

I am in the middle of my life now. I feel I am now, finally, poised to begin my life’s work. To inhabit a place where I am capable and where the expectations of me align with my expectations of myself. Where my creativity and ambition will be nurtured by an institution dedicated to bold grasps at excellence. Where I can contribute to something large and meaningful with enthusiasm untempered by systemic despair. Where I flourish by applying experience to new challenges.

In my life, I have hungered to find a home. Walls to define a space where I belong, but not confine me there. A lattice of friendship in which I am both supported and supporter. Where I take the wrist of the man next to me, and together, in the multitude, we are a web that has no weaker links; when any fail, the remaining absorb their weight. And now, I have that. I have it twice.

There will be uprooting-trauma as I forge forward. I must remain in contact with my senses; my tendency to shrink and isolate. I must step out. Move forward. Engage. I will live in building made of glass and steel. I will work in another one. But I will breathe the whole breath of my new city. Of my new life. Of all of this new life.

No comments yet

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s