I took a break. A deep breathing, Bahamian salt-water-air, food and drink indulging, novel reading, get out of my own head, kind of break. I focused on the family and lifelong friends I was with, the shows we were watching, the music we were hearing, the taste bud sensations, the beauty of the sunrise and sunset, the warmth of the sun on my skin, even when it was too much. I put every concern I’d had in recent months on hold.  They could wait. And they did. It’s amazing how easy it is to feel free when you can’t turn your phone on.

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I am slowly returning to myself, to my day to day life. The sunburn turned into a better tan than I’ve had in years, possibly ever, and I’ve received more compliments on how rested and refreshed I look than I can ever remember. Enough to make me think I should consider moving somewhere with more sun…But I’d miss the cold and the clouds, I think. So I’ll stay here, and I’ll get back in my head, back to pondering all the things that like to roll around in my mind and sometimes manifest themselves into words I share with you.  But I’m going to try to hang on to just a bit of that toes in the sand freedom for as long as I can, even if only in my mind.


The Color of Hunger

I know the hunger to escape, often found in the grey-white pages of a beloved novel. Or the hunger for peace, relieved in the quiet white of a snow capped mountain. I’ve seen a hunger for intimacy, unsatisfied in a little red car that could so easily spin out of control. I’ve felt a hunger for community and sought it out where a woman in rose colored tights preached to a vast room not even close to being filled. I’ve encountered the hunger to be connected across thousands of miles in two shades of blue and two shades of pink, and weeks of work on hand made blankets. I have never known true hunger for food, but I’ve seen it in the grey and withered hands of the old woman who took the bag of garbage from me before I could throw it away, in a poor and desperate country. I’ve observed a hunger to convey what only music truly can, in the dim yellow lights from two lamps on a darkened stage, where one of the world’s most accomplished mandolin players brings Bach to life in a way that is only understood by hearing. I know of the hunger to be remembered, wrapped up in a green and brown scarf. I discovered a hunger to be dancing and free in a little black dress and silver shoes. The hunger to be wanted has shown up in too many shades of blue to name. I’ve seen the satisfied hunger to be married to the one you love, in a white jacket and purple tie. I have dug deep into the hunger to be understood in the black of a keyboard or a brown notepad. I’ve heard of the hunger to make a profound change in one’s life, taking the shape of an orange anatomy textbook. The hunger for a stronger faith has lately been rearing its head in clear, salty tears. Soon I will bake a brown and orange cake, to celebrate a friend’s quenched hunger for finality. Every day this time of year, I am hungry for hope when I see the red and yellow leaves on the trees. But I am, now, today, yesterday and tomorrow, hungry, starving, for closure, and the only thing I see is black and white, which are both the absence of color, and all of them mixed together.

(This is an original piece written by me, the author of this blog. It cannot be used without my permission)