This week’s guest columnist is Molly Wood.
It is a rainy Tuesday morning in Flagstaff. I sit on the dry side of a coffee shop’s large pane window and watch drops of water traverse the glass, eventually making their way to the ground and from there to the drains along the streets. I watch water collect in puddles and wonder if I am too old to jump in them. Soon the rain will turn to snow and winter will come barging through our front doors without knocking and there will be no choice but to accommodate the frigid conditions by offering ourselves cups of hot chocolate.
I am allergic to winter, unfortunately. Well, I am allergic to wool. Try sweater shopping with an allergy like that; itchy fingers are inevitable. Everyone always talks about how much they love their insulated wool hats and scarves while I shiver in acrylic and cotton blends. Maybe it’s time to move again; let my feet breathe for the winter and be exfoliated by fine, white Caribbean sands.
The gray day is swiftly replaced by daydreams of sail boats and topaz waters that the sun hastily throws diamonds into. Emerald islands are scattered in the background of my fantasy. I take a deep breath and think of salt and the smell of fresh-caught fish. Suddenly I am craving sushi and mangoes.
As someone who’s fancied herself a vagabond most of her adult life, daydreams of 1,000 different genres break like little waves over my brain the way waves break on the shore: relentlessly, sometimes violently. Bumps and misfortunes in my personal life create hurricanes of these fantasies; 100 mph winds and 15-foot swells do their best to wash me back out to the wandering sea. But the roots I’ve let grow keep me planted firmly where I am despite enticing temptations that would be easy to follow. Instead of being blown about by the wind, I let my branches dance with it. For now, I have chosen stillness.
There is something commendable to be said of the bravery (sometimes mistaken as foolishness) that it takes to just pack up and leave. There is something respectable to be said of seeking to quench the thirst of curiosity about the world. My decision to be still holds no contempt for travel or exploration. However, as there is something admirable about seeking to taste other cultures, there is something of equal value to be said of making delicious communities for other’s to nibble on as well.
In my stillness I have cultivated community. I have come to know the individuals that comprise the gem that is Flagstaff, thus learning the importance of each pursuit. We all individually create the novel facets that give our little town its sparkle and texture. In this knowing I have found confidence in my own pursuits. The support that community offers can be a crutch when you’re broken, a platform to soar from when confidence encourages wings to spread and a refrigerator for accomplishments to be pasted on and celebrated. In supporting members of the community, we also develop accountability for one another, helping to build each other’s morals and develop more acute senses of right and wrong.
In my stillness I have learned necessary confrontation. When the back door is locked and problems and discomforts are letting themselves in through the front there is no other option than to greet them, offer them some tea, and see what they’ve got to say. When you meet problems like this, reconciliation is the only option and we are able to regard adversity gently and with the confidence that everything will work out to be better than fine. In my stillness I have learned to cultivate peace and be resilient toward misfortune.
Within the peace of stillness, the gentler aspects of life are more likely to approach us. Deer come to drink from our pools, flowers blossom in our gardens, we learn a quiet appreciation for simple things like the falling of 100 aspen leaves after an autumn breeze shakes them from their summer homes. In this tranquility there is self-reflection. We are able to see ourselves clearly and have the opportunity to do so until we disturb the waters with the falling tear drops that transform us. And like oceans, after these storms pass over us, there is yet another calm for us to observe ourselves in. Be sure to note the differences; know yourself well enough to count the new wrinkles that laughter and tears bring; take a good look at yourself when you’re afforded the opportunity. And when the storms are raging, know that regardless of how seemingly hopeless and eternal the chaos may appear, serenity will be back to pass through and soothe our turmoil and make sense of the confusion that is inevitable when we are shaken.
After necessary periods of stillness, we are able to be further grateful for those things that shake us; be they earthquakes that upheave our lives or maracas that give us new rhythms to dance and move to. Whether we begin moving again by choice, necessity or force, we will be able to take solace in our memories of serenity. And hopefully, this nostalgia will cultivate a self-assurance that the storms will indeed pass.
From my dry seat in the coffee shop I can see the clouds above starting to part; indeed, storms pass both literally and figuratively. The rain lets up. It is time to go. I gather my belongings, say farewell to the friend who steeped my tea and make my way out the front door. The air outside is humid and has the intoxicating scent that only rain can induce. I take a deep breath and am grateful that my restlessness can be soothed by a simple bike ride home.
A native Arizonan, Molly Wood lives and works in Flagstaff. When she’s not working, you can find her at hip-hop shows and poetry events.