The air in Independence, Missouri, is crisp with the fulfilled promise of fall. White smoke streams from the cracks in the smoker, disappearing into the clear blue of the sky against yellowing leaves. Meat drips as it browns; my father-in-law’s decades of experience and intuition combining with hickory smoke to make the perfect kabob. Welcome home, the smoke says.
Welcome back to Kansas City.
Independence, Missouri / evening / off the grid
3.5 years ago, renowned harpmaker Raphael Weisman stood on the brink of retirement, and I wrote a tribute piece on him for the American Harp Journal. It was my first publication breakthrough. When my dear friend Devin and her lover Brock asked me to play at their wedding, I put the pieces together: they lived just miles from Raphael’s workshop in Questa, New Mexico. I called him, and with his characteristic gentleness he agreed to loan me a harp.
So here am I, embracing one of the last harps he made, in the soaring sanctuary of an old Catholic church in Albuquerque. I rest my fingers on the strings and feel the potential there–hear the bell-like treble and the warm, clear bass. The sound rings out like a blessing, and my friend raises her face to soak it in.
We’ll meet next time, Raphael. Until then, thank you.
Albuquerque, NM / early afternoon / w/Harps of Lorien
The wrapper of my chocolate bar casts shadows in the murky rain-light, geometric shapes on the scarred blond grain of my table. Wood grain is all around me; on the walls in cedar paneling, in the burl-y tables, in the rough-edged wooden shelves that house a small selection of merchandise. Pleasant chatter and the hiss and tamp of the espresso bar fill the air.
Arbor Lodge, in Northeast Portland, has captured me with its homey appeal since we first walked in the door a year and a couple lifetimes ago. Owner Scott, he of the vast sideburns and the gleaming earring, welcomes all to his space full of coffee and community with the expansive air of a village blacksmith. The barista’s smile is a cheery herald of her skill with a cappuccino, and I depart with contentment.
Portland, Oregon / morning / The Arbor Lodge
My head is filled with crowds, milling and claustrophobic. Everywhere I look today I see humanity revealed with embarrassing clarity in all its jealousy, wrinkles, and farts. There is dust, color, and danger in the streets of Albuquerque’s downtown. The public transport creaks down the street and the strange beauty of the city presses on my soul.
I come around a corner and emerge in the shadow of a church and look up, up, up. Up to a sky so blue, so translucent, that it has no end and I can suddenly see myself within the Medieval layers of world, air, heaven. I am an ant in the universe. I am one in thousands and, suddenly and breathtakingly, alone.
Albuquerque, NM / afternoon / Immaculate Conception Church