In Transit

Here I sit, on the top level of a double decker bus somewhere between my nation's capitol and a city named after the state I've lived in for the last year. My mind keeps skipping, like a stone across water, from one idea to the next until it sinks finally back into the present moment with the squeeze of Zach's hand on my knee or snippet of sound from the people surrounding us.

I could say that we are homeless but that statement would be like adding water to ketchup and saying it's suitable tomato soup. Sometimes we twist and stretch things too far. The book we bought yesterday at a social justice and peace themed bookstore has been whispering to me to make the present moment my home, then I will never be without one. This sounds very wise to my ears but my mind likes skipping rocks too much. I think I could succeed at this if I got serious about meditation so I will. I'll let you know how it goes.

Back in Buffalo, we said goodbye to our friends, packed and cleaned our apartment, and fit everything we own into our car. The last thing we did before driving to the airport happened in the empty lot we tried to conquer behind our apartment. Though it did not become the perfectly pruned and planted community garden we had envisioned, at least it's not a garbage dump anymore. With our last few moments we scattered thousands of wildflower seeds into that jungle, without any idea if even one will survive. That is hope. You plant something, even if you don't have the water or the time or the ability to make it grow, and expect that something beautiful will bloom. The world would be a better place if we all believed in our own handful of seeds.