Little Voice

I spent days with Sara Bareilles and sweat dripping through every bodily crevice that summer.  Scorching hot D.C. weekend afternoons with Little Voice crooning and soothing and rocking my hips, my shoulders, my heart - peaceful and bursting in the same moments.  All those sun drenched weekends with slathered sunscreen on the tip of my nose, sunglasses and ipod creating a solitary world of running notes and companion thoughts, I walked and walked and walked through the city streets.  Shimmering concrete under blue skies, I felt each step forward and the growing strength that comes from a dedication to joy.

I baked in glorious sunshine and cooled my toes in the fountain behind the sculpture garden.  Shifting breezes sprayed the arches of water over my dewy skin and wet ink.  Drying together by the end of the song and the end of the page and the end of that thought.... When the heat became almost unbearable, I would duck into the Museum of American Art and the air conditioned Kogod Courtyard with the glass ceiling and the overpriced-but-worth-every-penny coffee, with my blue leather bound journal and write and write and write under the sun in the chilled air.  I would walk through the halls of new and old exhibits with graffiti spray-painted walls and oil-painted landscapes, memorizing feeling and breath and running notes that would carry me across the city that summer.  To Eastern Market, through the brightly colored jewelery, past the old man saxaphone player who became the only reason I would ever press pause on Sara Bareilles, behind the fresh fruit and to the painted glass, ceramic bowls, collage wall hangings, and oil canvasses with my summer stretched across the frame.  Bright reds, yellows, greens, blues, and purples.  Vibrant and alive.

Weekdays held professional vocations and weekends delivered independent joy, vibrant and alive.  I loved every. single. moment. in D.C., but I am deciding not to start my next chapter there.  I believe another city that will hold my joy this season.