by Jennifer Lang “Hi jai kow,” the teacher repeated a few times with an up-and-down lilt in her voice. I had no idea what the words meant, but I looked at the woman on my left and imitated her. “Inhale and sit tall. Exhale, stay,” the teacher continued in halting English. She counted five breaths, [...]
by Laura Didyk Travel and I do not have the best relationship. I love point A. And I love the experience of point B. I’m just not that fond of the trip from one to the other. A large part of the conflict is rooted in my lifelong susceptibility to motion sickness. On a bad [...]
Chris McCann, guest blogger
Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter’s best of all;
And after that there s nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come -
Nor know that what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.
This poem by William Butler Yeats has haunted me since I first read it at 15 years old. I moved around a lot as a kid—Boston, New Hampshire, Georgia, New Jersey—and always felt most at home when I was in one place thinking about another. These eight lines by Yeats knocked me over, and made me wonder whether my desire for wandering was simply a self-deluding race toward the grave.