Longing and belonging: loving

Last time I came to Brazil I threw my self head first into an uncontrolable fascination turned romance which made everything around me electric with promise of possibility. I had opened my hands to let go of everything else and they were both free to cling to this. So I clung. As a climber to the side of a mountain (I fell and bruised, of course.)

This time was different, I came to Brazil already in a love story; in love, with a heart and a place. I came with my left palm open, a small bird sitting in it. I trode gently, I wished for it to stay, to nest, I carried it, carefull to shield it without smuthering it. I enjoyed its singing so, its hopeful singing from an honest heart opened, in devotion, in bravery, as if it didn’t realize how exposed it became. What I longed for, what I longed to belong to.

The bird flew… left but the softness of its kiss in my hand, tears on my cheeks. The fleeting smell of roses and aching oceans of gratitude…



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