Travel Bend Write

Last night I headed up to NYC to perform with the #GrowFierce showcase of writers from Caits Meissner's Digging Deep, Facing Self course. 

I parked at my spot in Hoboken. Took the PATH train to 14th. Got the F train downtown. Scouted out Bluestockings. They were playing intimidating punk music. I skulked down the street and nervously sat over a bowl of Pho and a Vietnamese iced coffee.

I picked at my food, hungry, but too anxious to eat. 

A woman came in sharing her excitement over an upcoming trip to Vietnam. A staff member explained that she was from Saigon. I had to jump in. Soon, we're swapping stories of rice paddies, red sand hills, and misty switchbacks. My mind in Vietnam, my palms stopped sweating.

I mentioned that I develop yoga retreats and ache to offer one in Vietnam. The woman's eyebrows raised, "Really?! Do you have a card?"

Why yes, yes I do.

And then, remembering myself. I do. I do that. I travel around the world. I bend bodies. I write words.

With the warmth from these two women, I wandered back to Bluestockings. This revolutionary space has offered haven to Ramona Africa, to activists and artists spanning decades. The workers began setting out chairs and I begged to help, desperate for something to do. Their warm smiles made the punk seem less intimidating.

Soon, a trickle of familiar faces, though regrettably, mainly familiar from Facebook. No matter, they soon were in my arms as we embraced in greeting. 

And then, one by one, we offered ourselves up. The audience held us warmly.

An untitled piece that I shared last night:

Used to say vacant lots were

ugly until we dropped beats

around them, kicked life against

chain link fence, strung shoes

like ornaments on telephone 

wire

Said open fields were boring

until we painted the canvas 

with seed and let the horizon

bleed into the sky

They said Brooklyn was a

dump, Philly an armpit. Now

we splash home across our

chest, claim ancestry in

concrete

They disqualified most

female bodies--

too

big

hairy

pale

brown

skinny

flabby

We ask, "Where did

you come from?"

-Maiga Milbourne

A highlight, sweet Amy's son took the mike. He huffed, explained he had to get himself together, made sweet, determined fists, and basically displayed everything I had felt. Gathering what he needed, he crafted a poem on the spot.

The promise of big stories and whole humans. Space made for vital, small voices.

Plots made and wishes shared about the Mythic Beings Retreat, a weekend opened up specifically to nourish and create. I can't wait to experience more of what these women have to offer.

I slipped out, onto the F train, out on the PATH train, and then driving south to home. Tired, my brain spun. Space for our stories, for our voices, for each other.

This morning, Caits shared a poem written for each of us.

For me:

Maiga:

Ma, you ride

wind, song & 

waves, bend 

space & spine

& being fluid &

sunflower-fist

burst straight

through sky's 

thick canvas -

come sing

this freedom

loud as a flock

of gulls alive

over ocean &

then shhhh,

be still & bold

as stone,

you beg us

to be good

but strong.

-Caits Meissner

Come to the next two dates in the series! April 14 & May 12!