michael is gone. maxwell has birthed a new album. to everything, there is a season.
from redding street to macarthur boulevard, a wire-enclosed footbridge spans interstate 580. i walked that footbridge this morning; stopped in the middle of it to really feel how good it felt for the wind to flap at my dress. one driver looked up and waved. that at that speed, with the wire enclosing and all, he spotted me, thought to wave, and then did: a miracle to me. i waved back, and then waved, waved, and waved at the drivers after him. the wind, the sun, the fast cars, the promise of early morning--all felt good.
later...i am sitting at this (my daily) cafe in oakland, when the longingly beautiful suheir hammad walks in. just like that. i'd thought of her for months, wanting to tell her that that story, which she'd so generously complimented me on, at a workshop reading a year ago, had been accepted by the antioch review. finally, without seeking or grasping, i got to share.
"are you writing your novel?" i answered that i am. "it's time," she said.
yes. to everything there is a season.