kristin-a-musings

...I don’t
ask myself what I’m looking for.
I didn’t come for answers
to a place like this, I came to walk
on the earth, still cold, still silent.
--from "Gospel" by Philip Levine

Getting outta Dodge–aka, New York City, where I work in fundraising for a leading College of Education–has been on my mind for several weeks now. A bonafide member of the proverbial rat race, I was trapped in what seemed to be never-ending  rotations of the wheel of work in what feels like an endless era of layoffs and budget cuts.

The notion that you can produce more with less is powerful.  It speaks to your sense of responsibility, your hope for undiscovered superpowers, your narcissistic belief that, although you deny it, you are indispensable. And yes, it rankles because you know it’s not true.

Nevertheless, you try. You persist. Your profession is one that demands optimism. It obligates a “can do” approach. You never say die. You believe in the possibility of getting blood from a stone. Your long days grow into resentful nights. Work engulfs the weekends. It’s the 24/7 plan for saving the world…or at least a stab at trying to save  your world.

One day, you look in the mirror. You have become like ash, the result of the slow, interminable work-induced burn of your life. You are but a rendering of your former self. It isn’t pretty, but it’s obvious. It’s time to  get outta Dodge. You assess your options and you book your flights to that place where you think you can rekindle the goodness and patience and creativity that can restore your life. You are, after all, hopeful these things still smolder inside.

You land in Honduras a few weeks later. You have a history with Honduras. You plan to write about it, perhaps while you are here. But for the moment it is the lure of dis-connectivity that entices, the 24/7-lessness of one of the poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere. Work is farther away than the mere 2,300 miles you’ve traveled. You disconnect completely for 48 hours.

Your therapy is “Gospel” by Philip Levine.  It speaks to your need and to this place of pine forests… “The pines make/ a music like no other, rising and/ falling like a distant surf at night/ that calms the darkness before/ first light.”

And then, you begin to write.

“How weightless words are when nothing will do.”

(See the full poem "Gospel" by Philip Levine here: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/gospel)