i.
Clammed up, I’m an uncooked mussel as I board the bus. The lingering scent of passport checks fills the air, for we’re about to cross imaginary man-made borders.
ii.
Like a Latvian summer morning rain, I’m persistent. I insert myself into spaces and force people to make room for me, for I have packed enough cultural diversity to fill my days with nourishment. ‘Cause travelling while Black is an adventure on its own.
iii.
I’m fallible— I expect the worst, when people mean the best.
iv.
It’s not even Thursday, yet the storm rages all night and the next. All trees bow. The pine kneels before the God of Thunder, and waits for the oak’s plea for mercy.
v.
Lielupe river cries floods and Jūrmala roars accusingly, demanding I let my guard down. But I am a traveller; I have neither a goat nor a rooster to sacrifice.
vi.
I once heard milk is the food of the gods. So, my companion and I embark on a late-night quest for the fabled elixir of eternal life, only to find most shops closed. With determination, we intercept a man just as he is about to lock up for the day. We plead for a drop.
vii.
Alas! We have not the coins, for they are too heavy to carry. With our hopes dashed, we leave the place empty-handed.
viii.
Three, four steps away, we hear a voice calling. Convinced it’s not after our attention, we continue on our way, unaffected. Another couple steps closer and the voice louder, “Hello, friend!” My companion and I come to a halt, exchange a knowing glance, and prepare to be scammed.
ix.
Jurmala! I keep tripping myself, expecting to find deliverance in this place because Jumala means God in Finnish. Instead, I stumble upon kindness. “Here, friend! I trust these few droplets will suffice for your morning coffee,” says a stranger in the night, handing me a half-litre of milk.
x.
Shame remains vigilant, and early in the morn, I rush back to the shop to pay for kindness. No, the cashier won’t have it! “That was a gift from our chef,” she explains, “he overhead your pleas from the kitchen last night.” I’m at a loss for words. So, I absolve myself by stealing repeating some wise words I once heard, “My sincere thanks to the chef, who distributes the milk of human kindness. I hope he spills a little on himself.”
xi.
The smallest acts — the greatest impact — we are strangers no more.
xii.
A way of looking at kindness is through an open heart — And cultivating openness to kindness requires us to acknowledge that our personal experiences are not unique.
xiii.
Now, I’m convinced kindness is a universal language. Perhaps, we should use it more to communicate. ‘Cause it’s through the lens of kindness, the world takes on a more compassionate and understanding tone.
PS. A new post “A Way of Looking at Boldness” is coming up next Sunday. If you’re new to this series, A Way of Looking at Autumn’s First Breath is a good place to start.
a special note (regarding the previous post): Thank you to everyone who reached out or left a trace here. I appreciate all your comforting words and support.
This past week, I revisited one of my poems, Nomads’ Song, which feels so relevant and comforting as I hold both autumn and spring, right now … Listen to a fellow poet, Michele Lee, read the poem on her blog, “Serving iced-tea and poetry (w/audio).” The audio file is just below the second image. Thanks again, Michele, for your kindness.
Happy Autumn Equinox, Everyone! Let’s create our gratitude lists and embrace the season. ♥
