On letting go of extraordinary ambition

The feeling of it is indescribable.

In a place like the one where I am now, it’s very easy to get caught up in the dreams of others, tossed into a pot of brilliance as we all are.

I remembered though, recently, that my walk is my own; I don’t have an entire life ahead of me anymore, just half of one, probably. My life already reads as a list of grand adventures and minor accomplishments, and I have little desire to let go of some of the things I had before immersing myself in academia: a garden, a wildness, time to create and enough of an income to provide for my daughter and pay for a pleasurable life lived within our means.

I’d felt isolated, but now I know why. The separation was only painful because I was unwilling to accept the truth: I am different, I am in a different place in my life, I believe that knowledge is power, I’m already good at what I do and being able to study and network with top-notch professionals is an icing on the cake. And I know exactly where the few people I can count on here are. This is literally all that matters right now.

I came here with much more noble ideas. I am finishing my stay with the realization that I am at a zenith. It’s time to reflect.

It’s a story that was told to me many years ago, but I only chose to remember half of it. I would eventually come to this place. I would eventually have things to accept. I would have to come to terms with what I’ve always known: regardless of how loudly I shout, I’m more effective when people don’t know who it is that’s yelling.

I will relax into doing something for sheer joy, with the knowledge that my choice to do so is a radical act in and of itself. It doesn’t require age to earn the privilege of pleasure or creative expression. Anyone who’s been doing the hard work of trying to make the world a better place deserves to settle into the goodness of a present, and we deserve to have the time to create that space if it’s not already there.

I don’t need to be a hero, I just need to live, to show my daughter how it’s done, to make sure she and others have the space they need to be joy.

ultralight

Photo by Jason Wong on Unsplash | Ultralight on Cordella magazine's Field Notes | Sanguine Meander

In an emergency, a crayon will light for thirty minutes.
In an emergence, rainbow votives held high
refract prisms on walls and in the sky, flying flares
detract from heat-seeking missiles and take the blame.

Grateful for aim and gasping for breath,
thanks to lighthouses and harbingers
we have escaped death and burn with purpose
like a California wildfire fueled by fierce winds,
choosing our victims with a logic only known
by three-hundred-foot tall flames that take
everything in their wake by storm.

Our prayers reside in droplets of rain
hovering over clouds of smoke that move
from here to New Jersey and wind up
on the news, coating everything in fear
and soot, the tears of mothers dripping down
on things we could no longer protect,
dirty black rivulets making their way south.

Enlightened by loss we remove the handles
from toothbrushes to take every last ounce
of weight off our backs, to ease the days
spent on trails that are thousands of miles long;

Somewhere, someone has recorded all this
for posterity, hoping someone will be alive
to grasp these leftover asphalt thoroughfares,
remnants of dams and plastic hills,
miscellaneous bits of things we left behind
in our attempts to run from ourselves—

Unidentifiable trinkets that melted together
to block the natural paths of rivers
until they forgot how to flow to the ocean.