Travel

This one might be subject to future editing, but here it is for now. Note this this is just a description, not necessarily an endorsement, heh.

Travel light, they say.

Release the things of the world.
Protect your heart from too much handling.
Be your own person.
March to your own beat.
Lay down your burden and be free.

Freedom is enlightenment is zen is detachment is
fluttering like a robin
soaring like an eagle
dancing like a fairy
light and immaterial
leaving no footprints in the snow.

But when I travel

I fill my pockets with spoons and pinecones and magnets.
I bang my heart on the edges of tables like my toes.
I am eleven or twelve people,
Marching six or nineteen directions at once.
When I lay down my burden, I brush its teeth first and close its eyes.
I listen to its endless prattle as I try to fall asleep.

I try to start fresh every once in a while,
to disencumber, to dance free,
but I am who I am:
a giant suitcase, a massive scrapbook,
a lumbering galleon that sails funny empty,
and when I pass through the snow,
I leave the imprint of my whole body.

I travel heavy.

© Rachel Spitler
February 11, 2014