Become the Sky
I reached the top of the stairs breathless,
but that wasn't new for me. I hadn't anticipated there being a third set of steps until I reached what turned out to only be the second set. I pressed forward, my quad muscles straining as I swung my arms to drive me upward.
There, at the top of the stairs, I bumped into a view of the Tagus River in Lisbon, Portugal. I had been there for two days now and knew the water was near, but hadn't seen it. It was a working view, which bore much resemblance to my soul. Huge ships lined the shore, arriving at or departing from the port.
My eyes traced farther into the distance and landed on the narrow passage between two stretches of land. There, the water was still, a breath held.
I imagined myself on the island. I imagined what the view was from there. I imagined living in one of the homes. I envisioned the home I would have built, how the plants and trees would surround me like a fortress. The spiral staircase leading to the second floor. I would look down from it each morning with a grateful heart. The birds that would visit, greeting me with sweet hymns. The person I would leave in bed, snuggled beneath white sheets, while I made my way outside to watch the sunrise. The shower I would take, baring all to the sky but hidden from wandering eyes.
But being there would keep me from seeing from here.
So I ran back down.
And ran back up fourteen more times.
—
I'd sprinkled in lavender salts and decided to add another bag, this one geranium.
I usually only pour in one, but it's been a month since my last bath, and they both call out to me. I poured in two cups of Epsom salt before adding too many drops of cedarwood. Then I stepped away as the tub filled.
When I finally step in, the water scolds my feet and lower legs. I stand there making an unpleasant face, discerning whether I can tolerate it as is.
I give in.
It's too hot.
I turn on the cold water and wait.
Finally, I lay back in the tub. I sway my arms beneath the bubbles. The movement reminds me of playfulness, freedom, ease. I let the feeling carry me beyond the acrylic tub to a place waiting patiently for me.
I slip down farther, the water cradling the back of my neck and head—a water pillow.
As my head floats above the surface, an old memory rises.
My sister and I were riding dirt bikes together. We were only circling the yard of our home on Nocks Landing Road, but it felt like we were on a NASCAR track. Somehow, the same loop took us somewhere new each time. The view never grew old or familiar. The path around the house embraced us.
As I recall the memory, it feels as though music is blaring from speakers in the sky, and we sing back together:
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
And they're like, It's better than yours
Damn right, it's better than yours
I can teach you, but I have to charge.
At this point in the chorus, my sister and I are rounding the back corner of our house, headed toward the pond that had everything in it but fish. We both have one arm in the air, dancing and singing, rolling our hips—which is likely where I went wrong as the one driving us.
It's at this point that I somehow lose control of the dirt bike, and we go sliding across the yard.
Instead of screaming, instead of asking each other if we were okay, what do we do?
We laugh.
We laugh uncontrollably.
I upright the dirt bike, use my right foot to kick-start it, and with one attempt:
VROOMMMMMMMMM.
My sister hops back on.
The concert goes on.
La-la, la-la, la
Warm it up
La-la, la-la, la
The boys are waiting
La-la, la-la, la
Warm it up
La-la, la-la, la
The boys are waiting
—
My hands caressed the carbonate rock I was sitting on.
We'd been talking about this trip for at least a year. We'd spoken at length about Sitges and the experiences it might hold for us once we got there.
But being here, now, this was the moment I didn't know I was looking for.
It was simple, but it drew me in without hesitation.
The wind crept by, but I stayed put.
I watched as the couple to my right dried themselves. I pretended not to be interested, glancing in their direction briefly, trying not to let my gaze linger too long, pretending to be modest on a nude beach.
The woman was beautiful. Curvy, with jet-black hair.
The man was edgy, tattoos mapped across most of his body, skin and bones.
Eventually, he stripped out of his black Calvin Klein underwear. He kept his back to me, but I wasn't complaining.
He gently dried himself while his girlfriend, sprawled across her blanket, stared up at the sky.
I wondered what the ocean felt like that he'd just emerged from.
Was it cold?
It was so blue and clear that it felt dishonorable to disturb it.
I thought about the cute blond German.
The one who walked ahead of us after we stepped off the train in Barcelona.
The one who had looked back at me several times during the ride.
Before we parted ways, he turned around and blew me a kiss.
The wind picked up, as if irritated with me. Shards of sand smacked against my face and settled onto my lips.
I know, I thought. I should have gotten his name.
No.
His name and number.
But by the time my friend urgently pressed me to "go get it, honey," I raced through the train station looking for him.
He was gone.
Come back, I thought, feeling Ruth's despair from Titanic.
But at least I have his kiss.
I closed my eyes and let the memory kiss me.
—
My thumb washes over a picture of me standing before the Trevi Fountain in Rome, Italy.
It's the only photograph that survived from that monumental trip twelve years ago.
Early in my senior year of college, it dawned on me that as my time at Longwood drew to a close, the experience felt incomplete.
Studying abroad, I thought, would complete it.
Like I've somehow always done, I made it happen.
My best friend's uncle cosigned a Wells Fargo loan that I am still paying off today. It seems that by making the bare minimum payment of fifty dollars each month, I have managed to keep the trip alive within me.
For years, I kept this picture hidden, buried at the bottom of a tote with all my awards, medals, and mementos.
Then I'd slip it into a random page of a book, attempting to forget where I'd placed it.
When I returned from Paris last fall, the picture fell from its hiding place while I searched for a grade-school yearbook.
I picked it up, looked at it, and for the first time, I saw something different.
I brought it upstairs and laid it on my altar, surrounded by a white candlestick, a bowl of palo santo and sage, and a red bird carving I'd found at Eastern Market.
The background of the image is beautiful.
That's why I had the picture taken there.
When we arrived at this moment during our two-week trip, it took my breath away.
But the person standing in front of the eighteenth-century masterpiece was far from masterful.
I was a wounded animal then, but I limped on, always attempting to disguise my ailment.
I hesitated and fought myself that day before finally tapping Rachel on the shoulder.
"Do you mind taking a picture of me?"
I was certain I would never be able to look at the image.
Before we left, we took part in the coin-toss tradition.
What I can't remember is how many coins I threw into the fountain.
Was it one, with hopes of returning to Rome one day?
Two, for a return and the possibility of love?
Or three, granting a Roman wedding?
When I close my eyes, I strain to picture what I tossed into the fountain with my right hand over my shoulder.
—
Nothing is as it seems.
It's better.
While I was working, sweating, and crying, goodness was following me.
Simple, joyful memories left a deep impression on my heart, and now they chase me like the wind.
Moments I'd thought slipped through my fingers were actually leaving a trail.
In the darkest seasons, I allowed beauty to inspire me.
Please, God, let it lead me home.
Sculpt me into something beautiful.
Let this life be one of glory.
Maya Angelou knew why the caged bird sang.
And I know what happens to that bird once it's free.
It didn't just fly.
It didn't just spread its wings.
I know because I am both the witness and the evidence.