I have been accused of being a my way or the highway kind of girl. And as long as we’re talking cliché’s I’ll say I’m also an I’ll believe it when I see it and what you see is what you get kinda gal. The cliché is tough. It’s an exaggerated way of looking at anything, putting someone or something in a box and not allowing it room to change or breathe. I’m not a fan of clichés, boxes, accusations or anything that takes away my freedom. Lately I’ve been going for long drives out into the desert trying to breathe as much freedom into my lungs as I can possibly get. My heart knows that no one can take away my freedom. Even if I was trapped in a small room, a jail cell, every moment of every day I am allowed to choose my thoughts. In the spring it seems, choosing freedom is more important than just about anything. In choosing what I think about myself, about others, and about life I like to allow us all wide open spaces to breathe, change and evolve.
All this driving, and fiery freedom-searching doesn’t allow a lot of sit still and read time, so I’m reading short stories. Francesca Marciano’s The Other Language. I adore her and all her writing but this one embodies just what I need right now. Stories that span the globe, an open way at looking at relationships and how we all attempt to interact, care for and communicate with one another. In the first story one young girl’s lust and longing for an English boy colors the choices she makes later in her life. On a small island off the coast of Kenya a woman reconnects with a former lover. She wracks her brain to meld the more exaggerated version of this man with the experience of her young lover. Marciano is brilliant, light, but never shallow, with a sweet way at looking at the world without ever being saccharine.
“We should have this conversation on the beach,” he whispered. Outside it was pitch black, save for a sliver of moon high in the sky. Nobody was around and the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water. They sat very close on the cool sand, their shoulders and arms touching.
“Yes it’s much better out here,” Emma smiled at Luca, grateful that he was her brother, that he was there, close again. They did need air, space – they needed darkness, to be able to talk about what they’d been avoiding for so long.