Au Revoir
My feet are tracing narrow stairs and windy alleys, down from Sacré-Coeur, top of Montmartre, to Pigalle. The sound of steps, translating distance into time, the red clock in Brussels train station, ticking, counting, down, 40 hours left in Paris, now 2 months in Europe.
My mind is measuring the moral circumferences, of these first world privileges: smell of roasted coffee beans, freshly baked Sicily pizza crust. Of my own, gap year carefree, luxuriating moments in dreamy places, like this one.
But in that smoke puffed out by a gorgeous Parisian girl, chic high heels, trendy cafe, I see also the smokes from bombed hospitals, children buried under rumbles, just a few countries over.
My heart is surveying the sentimental landscape, right now, strolling through a melancholy trough. A predictably familiar place before every departure, even the sunset, arriving, but not quite arrived, leaving, and left behind.
San Francisco, Vancouver, Honolulu, LA, San Diego, Tokyo, Osaka, Kobe, Kyoto, Hong Kong, Shangrao, Hangzhou, Xiamen, Shanghai, Toronto, Montreal, Lisbon, Madrid, Barcelona, Rome, Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, Athens.
Bridge, bay, beach, rivers, plateaus, prairie, mountains, concrete jungles, glass highrises, bricked houses, chateau, Buddhism temples, cathedrals, sunrise, sunset, half moon, full moon.
I have been on the road for well over half of 2023.
A suitcase, not even that big, ocean blue.
Documents, electronics and chargers, EU converter, Asia adapter, toiletries, underwear, socks, yoga mat, instant coffee just in case, books, journals, pencils, summer shorts, winter thickness.
This suitcase, minimally packed, stripped daily living down to its bareness. A symbol of freedom, to live here or anywhere (maybe). Richness of memories, worn and tear, airport stickers, rugged surface, of this suitcase.
How beautiful it is, how traveling, rupture ritual and structure, the comfort of banal living at home (but what is, and where is home anyway?). There, I live in bubbles, invisible to me most of the time, padded by cozy weather, buffered by loving friends and families.
Here, on the road, my raw contours of being, suddenly exposed: fresh blood or recently dried stain, wounds scarred, hardened or still tender. Unhealed past hurt and trauma, love with so much condition attached all coming to the surface. Logistical, physical and emotional frictions even violence.
It is here, I become proficient in-between, and fluent living gaps, standing firm in oppressed marginal spaces, and learning to be patient peddling out of solid darkness, not rushing towards gossamer brightness.
It is here, by slowly, radically accepting the realism of living, I found strength and lights. Not confidence based on inflated narratives, but resilience from intentional striving, all the efforts of watering the seeds, watching them grow, from the ground of sufferings and pains, towards Bodhi trees of enlightenments. Unconditional true freedom.
And all these trying to live full aliveness, despite everything against it, the essence of self love? What is self love if not self liberation, or at minimum, self preservation?
And even more importantly, when one is in love with this world, truly in love with this once-ness of life, the selfhood dissolved and diffused, into:
The white cherry blossoms in Shinjuku Gyoen garden, the brown limestone of Roma Forum relic, the gridded city lights of Barcelona, left bank cafes River Seine, and a glimpse of Geisha sound-less walking Kyoto old town.
The heart itches of seeing his beautiful smile, the warmth generated from laughters of strangers bonding over wine, the serendipitous reunion of old friends in a foreign land, fellow artist, inspired by the same Basquiat painting, and peer outcasts, dancing inside a cage, techno rave in a once illegal abandoned warehouse.
