57th Street, and so on.

I just want to write.

Alison Krauss is singing “restless” on the stereo, and there’s a tree growing taller than a five story building just outside the window,
and I am thinking about goodbyes, and aching from it a little—goodbyes to come, and seasons passing.

This morning, I thought of how my friends’ and my situations have changed so over the past year or two, how we are no longer people who would meet anymore, perhaps.
But in God’s providence we did. We did meet. And now we are diverse adults, with lives I never dreamed for us.

Today we drove around Manhattan (a wild and ridiculous thing to do) and I knew that I love to ride around observing. That this is my favorite place to be. In a car, watching. Thinking, with music on, perhaps, to help me enter. Synthesizing and streaming in and streaming out, watching and wondering and wanting to write the stories and beauties of each person that I see.
To see how they are woven and to worship with them the Holy Weaver who can intricately draw their story into the wonder-world that is His Kingdom of Right-ness and Worth and Meaning, through Jesus. Through Jesus.

How they need Him. Skinny girl in latest leggings and chunky heels wandering through the retail forest;
tall and weathered black man in chalkdusty boots and floppy hat who works so hard. And has a Southern accent (when did you come here? Why? The looks of you make me want to do manual labor. You look solid and strong and smart--like a father. I hope you are one. I hope you’re a good one, poured through by God. )

Nesting-doll-shaped Korean woman in the tight grape-purple dress, lilting, limping down the street with a smile on your face. Where are you going, I wonder?..
Boys on skateboards in the park; are your parents rich? Or do you come from somewhere else in this strange city to fly on wealthy concrete? I wonder if you know Him—do you know Him at all?

Smoking businessman in lavender shirt and mauveish tie. You match the Gucci window displays behind you, and you look unhappy. You’re slim and young, and here you are, in building-canyons…Do you want out? Do you know the world out there? Did you come here looking for something? Do you not believe the lie anymore that tallness makes a place more worthwhile, that crowdedness and higher price tags make you feel powerful if you’re involved? You drop your cigarette and take three steps at once back into an unlabeled glass office building.

Someone Important is having his photo taken. He looks like a caricature of a 1950s mogul-man, with horn-rimmed round glasses and the sharpest suit. He is short, nearly bald, but with hair long in the back, and glossy. He looks Italian, and very seriously proud of himself. And very silly as he stands posing Noble for the cameraman. A young guy holds the bronze reflector screen. They wait while our car is in the way. They look at us. We look at them. Big buildings all around us. In a magazine this will look Very Important. Central. Influential. Who is this man, and how is this enough for him? I’d laugh if I were him.

Dear people. Dear people. And there are people even right below, down in the subway tunnels. Living there. Did you know? I want to meet them.

Reality doesn’t fit inside my words at all. It’s bigger; sometimes I picture it dark and swirling, like blood. Not gruesome, but alive and inexplicable and unexpected. I try to teach myself that I’m not taming life by putting it in words. Why do I want to write so much?

Whom do you stop and talk to, when you love everyone? Where do you go, and what do you do? How do you pick one place and way? Praying for those I see is like food. I need it.

I’m going : to Brazil.

We went on a road trip, did you know? My Emilia-friend and I. It was just wonderful. Thanks for having us.

Roads, roads, roads, roads. Even when you stop, there are roads you're going down, just vertical maybe, instead of horizontal. Deeper instead of farther. Like oil wells.