London, I'm Flying.

The days are coming to an end, here on Edgware Road in Central London. Now would be the appropriate time to explain to myself, and everyone else, what I’ve learned about life, love, society, passion, influence, and money in a world where the latter often carries the most weight.

Instead, however, I am contemplating every keystroke as I look out the dirty window of my flat at another sunset over a city that, from this angle, looks quite like a crowded American skyline.

Eight floors up, and I can still feel the street begging for my feet to hit the pavement.

That’s the difference.

London is eager for a hand to hold. She is not sufficient without the people that comprise her. A lot of folks would claim this for every city-but I would disagree. I met Edinburgh-I met a city responsible for her own support in every way, shape, and form. Edinburgh molded me-left a mark on my life-I did little more than contribute to the number of padded soles that have treaded down her streets year after year.

London needed someone, perhaps not me, but an open soul, to bring her out of her shell. She’s quite shy, to be honest. Some of her streets are humble, others bustling and crowded with market and children free of the hands of their parents. Others are serenely quiet, even in the chaos of the surroundings.

There was a strange silence at the doors of Westminster Abbey when I last set foot on the property.

And as soon as I crossed the street to Big Ben, the noise returned, as though someone had removed fictional ear plugs from my ears, with just enough time for me to make subtle eye-contact with the calm London that does not often stop by this dingy flat miles away.

Call it Divine Intervention.

Call it Insanity.

Perhaps a glimpse was all I needed.

So, have I fallen in love with London?

With the hushed alley ways, the silent museums of history, the cobblestone streets, the gorgeous breeze that dances across my face every day, the love, the age, the living, the dead…

Yes.

Yes, I have.

As this city is one of death and rebirth, so am I a cyclical creature.

I finally found a connection that could remind me there is a certain peace in such a pace.

Sweet Edinburgh

Edinburgh captured my heart.

Many things in my life have captured such a gullible heart-fleeting flings and relationships, words, melancholy acts of revelation-but nothing quite so hauntingly lingers as the soul of Edinburgh within my veins.

What it was about the city, I could not tell you. Perhaps that it wasn’t a city at all, was the main attraction. A subtle city-one that does not beg of the liveliness and energies of all of its inhabitants, at all times. One that cautiously creeps under visitors’ skin upon arrival, and settles calmly, in a new home for years to come.

The problem with this understated settling becomes evident when you board the train to leave Edinburgh, as I did earlier today. There’s this pull at every muscle in your body-including the strings of your heart-as though you’ve lost a dear friend, forever.

Goodbyes aren’t really exchanged-as Edinburgh knows something, it seems, that you do not. Upon your outset from her simultaneously commercial and stylistically ancient streets, she is already planning your return.

Psychologically, as a capable human being, you simply attribute this notion of return to your own thoughts: “Oh, I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring mother and father back…they have to see everything Edinburgh has to offer.”. The thoughts continue in the same fashion, as you convince yourself you wouldn’t be without Lady Edinburgh for the rest of your life.

But, my dear friends, it is not you who decides. It is not those you made friends with while settled quietly in the streets of her city. Nor is it the financial resources one has, or presumes to have, in the future years of life.

Edinburgh decides.

I can hear her calling.
She is not worried…she knows it is inevitable that I will return.

She’s convinced me quite well.

The Burgundy Couch

I was laying on the couch in my flat at 2 AM this morning, with a duvet that wasn't my own, and a pillow I could have done without. Facing the open window, I watched for about ninety minutes as the sky began to get lighter and lighter. I left the lights and the music off, put down my book, rested my head on the back of the couch's unfortunate burgundy exterior, and settled into one of my favorite places-the realm of thought.

It's been difficult to truly have moments to myself since I have arrived here. I live with five other women, and I have been enjoying their company, along with the company of the other four members of our group. There have been day travels to museums and nights spent barefoot on the streets of London, searching for our way home from festivities that lasted longer than the tube could bear to stay open. I've been dreaming, singing, laughing, crying, loving, learning, and contemplating in the presence of others-all too tired to return to my spring-filled mattress at night for personal reflection.

Perhaps my mattress is so uncomfortable because she does not want to listen to what my mind has to say.
Perhaps the couch prefers my company.

In any case, as I stared out the window of my flat this morning, eight stories from the crooked sidewalks and nocturnal residential Londoners crowding my street, I felt alive.

It occurs to me at this moment that clarification might be necessary. There are so many people in this world that claim to feel alive, at least it seems, while they are living the day-to-day. Wake-up, coffee, kids to school, car to work, traffic, paperwork, lunch, afternoon slump, kids home from school, dinner, late night tv, bed, sleep, wake...

That might be living, but I certainly don't think that makes you alive.

After a day of exploration in the rain, clad in my soggy boots and clothes, I settled in for conversation with some dear friends. A few Strongbow's later, my mind and body were begging for me to find a place for myself. It was at that moment that I knew, I was alive.

When your mind and body can appeal to you in ways you are unaware of, you know you're alive.

I settled into the couch. Exchanged telepathic thoughts with the light of the moon, and fell asleep in pure bliss.

That's the first time I've felt that way in nearly four years.
And I refuse to wait another four for further company and clarification.

Tonight I will return to the couch-to the moonlight serenade-and pray for company in the silence that surrounds me.

I will not let go.

Love Reminded Me...

There is a sincere, honest, pure beauty in a world perpetuated by Love. In the simplest form, Love is as complex as the four letters which comprise the word. Love is present in the smallest of gestures, the slightest whisper, the calmest glance of the eyes. It is everything wanted and needed by a human race searching for so much more. Yesterday, amongst the noise, the dancing, and the cheers of hundreds of thousands of people, I was reminded of such simplicity.

We were all there for the sake of Love.

It is hard to believe we live in a world where there are rules and regulations as to the display, creation, and perpetuation of such a beautiful, natural motion. There are excuses and rumors and lies that scar the very name of Love, and send tears of confusion down Her cheeks, as She wonders what Her giving heart did to deserve such judgment.

Perhaps it is my lack of ascription to a specific religion or set of a beliefs that allows me to take Love in on her darkest days, pass Her a cup of tea, and promise that after a few Advil, the headaches of the world will dissipate.

She constantly asks me, "What did I do to deserve this?".
Do you know how difficult it is to answer a question that does not have a rational, suitable answer?

This world is befuddled and dumbfounded by the norms and guidelines that box the human race into a perpetuated comfort zone. Each time we step out of that zone, which rarely happens as history reminds us, a change occurs. Lives are saved, people are relieved of the burdens their ancestors have carried for centuries, and we take another step in an aimless direction of progression.

As I pondered the lack of true direction the human race has in this abstract idea of "life", I looked around at the friends of Love. I found her in the arms of the strangers above; in the kiss of two women who valued Her beauty to the fullest; in the glances of supporters and advocates of Love's manifestation in all forms. And I wondered why We were so afraid, for so long (and quite honestly, still afraid) to step out of  that box of comfort once more, and give Love a true chance at success.

Should we have to throw a parade to save Her name? Should stickers and pamphlets and encouraging words from Love's enlightened minds be absolutely vital to Her success in the world? Love smiled at me yesterday, She told me She belonged her.

Love should not have to search for a place to belong.

So, as the parade continued and the noise escalated, and Love breathed a deep sigh of relief-I fell into a disconnected zone of content. And as I looked to my right, I found a little ray of hope:

I found Love. Wrapped about the arms of this tiny girl, whispering into her soul:

"Please, make me a home."

And even if this beautiful child didn't understand Her right away...I know she will do the best she can to take Love in and spread Her across the span of the life she is just beginning.

There is hope in the future.
In the future, there is Love.

Hello, London.

As with any relationship, London and I have had our ups and downs these past few days. We seem to be shaky friends at this point, with a sincere hope in each of our hearts for something more. Fortunately, with each passing hour, I have accepted another of this crazy city's interesting quirks, and I believe her continual appeals to my heartstrings and thoughts have created more of a friendship than I had expected upon arrival.


There's a chilly breeze in this blank flat (apartment) and the many buildings outside of my window look inviting with curtains and furniture blocking the windows of my neighbor's little pieces of the city. We may not have much (really, nothing more than a table and a few ratty couches) in this room, but outside, London breathes deeply and heavily with excitement, comfort, and a distinctive personality different from anything I have ever encountered. 


She's calling me to come play. 
But, for today, I think I'll have a grown up come to the door and explain I'm feeling a bit sick and should "lie down for a while" (winkwink). 
Sometimes it's difficult to make new friends when your heart is with the old.


For those of you reading, new or old friends, family members, strangers--you should know I see you at every single corner and at every park bench in the near-by Hyde Park. I search for your voices-familiar signals of home-and my senses beg for smells and sights of something from where I came...besides a McDonalds or a KFC. I know you are with me on this journey, and I would never be able to do it without you. I would greatly appreciate it if you could hop on a plane and join me, but seeing as this city is more expensive than the American ones I just left, I understand if you can only capture your messages in little bottles and send them to me overseas.


Don't worry about the address...I'll find them.


London, thus far, is a city of chaos. People are constantly rushing, preaching, begging for change, bumping into one another-like little particles of a complicated chemical. Everyone seems to have something on their mind, or hidden in their accented words and actions-a little key to life-that only fits to the door of answers we are all searching for. But while they're eyes are focused on the street in front of them, mine are focused on the backs of their heads, their children, and the way in which they walk and interact with one another. 


It's quite a bit like home, and then quite different. (And now I'm using the word "quite" because that's "quite" common here...)


After re-reading the paragraphs above, I feel as though I should clarify the muddled mess in my mind for those of you reading. I've not slept (well) in a few days, my heart is heavy with homesickness, and my shoes are constantly on my feet for fear of contracting a disease from the carpet in this room. My eyes are bright with hope, but heavy with exhaustion. And my mind is full of questions, observations, memories, and the surface panic attacks of which tube-line to take to make it home. 


I suppose I simply had to tell someone besides my leather-bound journal about the conflicts I am currently experiencing. London and I are working out the kinks, and I believe in the next two days, we shall grow quite close. 


(She knows I'm in love with her cuisine, already.) :)


For now, I will leave you with an existential note of hope, happiness, and submerged bliss somewhere beneath this chilly, pale skin of mine.


It's time to close the window. But tomorrow is another day, and I think I'm finally ready to explore.


Good Evening, London. 
You may now relax.