Of Bears and Penguins

I can see the Baltimore Harbor out my window. And I never thought about the word harbor much before I spent several Saturday mornings with a cup of coffee contemplating the view outside. Harbor, a place of safety from the sea's vicissitudes.

My Dad frequently asks me if my ship has coming in yet. To which a year ago I said, "It's not coming for another year," or "The only ship I'm interested in is the one that's going back to Texas."

I didn't know, truth be told, what the ship would look like. A little while ago I wrote that I was in need of a rebirth of wonder, and related also that I'd finally seen Baltimore as a beauty. Maybe those two things are unrelated, and maybe a dog didn't really wink at me in the elevator last Friday, and maybe my noticing a sign that said "Good Luck" was a funny coincidence. But this is what the Baltimore Harbor looked like from my window the day my ship came in, flying every sail and ringing every bell.

I've taken a job that will lead my feet out of this city. I'll no longer be neighbors with Poe's remains, I'll not go to sleep by the blue light of the Bromo Seltzer Clock Tower, nor watch the fireworks at Camden Yards. In just a short while, I'll never have to throw myself on Highway 40 West to drive to Edmonson Village where the children are waiting for teachers and food and love, and their own rebirth of wonder.

I know there will be more to say, eventually. And that as always it will be complex. But for now, I'll say this: When I first got to Baltimore, I dreamed of sleep. I wrote to friends and told them I wanted to visit them and just sleep. I dreamed of deep, dreamless, delicious sleep, that was so absent amid the work, and the overwhelming nature of it.

Yesterday, after telling my principal that I was leaving soon, I came home and slept the sleep of angels, so good that it nearly tasted crisp and cool. I'll sleep it again tonight, and I'm sure the night after that. And when I wake, I'll be, in some form or fashion, headed home.