A Speck in Space

I once lost track of time. I once lived, without ever being sure what day of the week it was. And a few times, when things were going really good, I lost track of the month. I saw the stars every single night, and not just the normal ones, the stars between the stars. Consequently, I was naturally aware of my location within our magnificent Milky Way Galaxy at any given moment. I wrote a lot about being a speck in those days. I wrote about the sun rising in Chicago as I watched it set in India, and about feeling like my body was blasting backwards through space, as I sat on the surface of the earth watching the sun disappear behind some Bulgarian field of wheat. I wrote a lot about the mind-blowing-ness that all of this exists and works and oh my God, not only do I exist but I can feel! I can love!

I promised myself, that upon returning home, to always keep track of the moon.

I now live back in the city, where when I see a pink cloud, I kind of just sigh and know that the day is nearing its end. It’s not every day that I catch the sun in its show-stopping act of rising or setting. I live on M-F and weekend time, and I do not know which direction to look for Cassiopeia tonight.

 

I remember watching the sun go down at Instituto de Na’ Lu’um near the small town of Villa de Gruta in Argentina. It was in many ways similar to another moment I hold so close to my heart, of the cloudless sky on the preschool playground; my first memory. In both memories, I am standing next to an adult, larger than I, looking up at the sky. In Na’ Lu’um I am looking more straight ahead, probably because I am a full size adult now, but also because I am looking at the setting sun. Atardecer. The way it is falling behind the distant mountains, we can see the circular outline of the sun. The light is diffused just enough by Earth’s planetary landscape that I feel as if I can see into the sun. The Argentinian farmer next to me is speaking in Spanish, which I, at the time, have an incredibly limited understanding of. He’s definitely saying something about ‘seeing the circle’. Looking back on this, I wonder if he may have been speaking of the cycle of the sun, days moving forward and the counting of time, but in that moment I am just staring off into this perfect circle of a sun, basking in it’s dull heat and ultimate magnificence.

I’ve always wondered about this Argentinian man. I’ve wondered if he was some sort of medicine man, like a Don Juan teacher. When he arrived on the farm I noticed a large feather dangling from his bracelet and noted his incredible leather hat. Being unfamiliar with headwear of this kind, I am tempted to call it a cowboy hat, but am sure it has a more sophisticated title, like horse-man's hat or something. I was immediately drawn to him. He was quieter than the rest of the visitors and seemed to be on the fringe of the crowd. For some reason it felt quite natural to consider him my horse-man, storytelling and singing to the moon, South American Grandfather.

In the moment that this Grandfather and I stood, watching the perfect sphere of the sun drop, there was a fire being built inside the newly erected sweat lodge, made of branches and covered entirely with eucalyptus. An incredible scent was just beginning to waft across the field.

Currently, here in present day Chicago, I am deep into the heart-wrenching process of reviving my spirit. I gave up my art practice for a few years while I fell in love, started a flower farm, got married, had a child, and finally, quit the farm. It was at the beginning of September last year when I mentally let go of the farm. In that difficult decision, I found all of the open space to reconnect with everything I thought I had lost.

In the last six months I have been hiding out at my massive desk, covered in books, art supplies and some plants. It overlooks the neighborhood from our second story sun room and it is glorious. I’ve been waking up early to write before my son gets up, and coveting minutes here and there for yoga, reading, and baths. One morning in the fall I woke when it was still dark, and crept off to the beach to write poetry. The planes coming into O’Hare over the lake put on quite a show. I’ve been spending more and more time observing; my breath, nature, the stars, my son, and also, it’s getting easier to forget what day it is.