Beautiful Differences: How Travel Changes Life and its Perspective

Traveling has been a near obsession of mine since I was a child. An all - consuming fire was ignited when I became I teenager atop the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France. Now, an intrepid explorer, you can find me in various states or countries in one trip: packing in rich cultural experiences, speaking with the locals in their language, and savoring local eats.

An appreciation for differences is the subtle gem of my travels. In my recent trip to Italy and Greece, I was fortunate enough to meet and make friends with individuals from all over the world. I felt like an infant as the murmur of languages enveloped me. I learned about the unique beauty of their lands, their pride in their countries as well as their dismay in the politics of their own towns. Each shared stories of their childhoods, of their favorite beaches and cafés, and their thoughts on American culture. Each story was different but homogulous to the next. Souls brought together by a common yearning; strangers yet kin.

Traveling reminds me of the fragile, harmonious dance of Humanity. We all create the beautiful tapestry that is our home, each contributing to its towns, flavors, and essence. I feel fortunate to be surrounded by the abundance of differences. I relish in the opportunity to listen to the narratives of new friends, fellow travelers, and the occasional misanthrope. It is an honor to bear witness at the junctures when their relatives graduate from college, as a significant other receives a promotion, when they welcome new life, or while we embrace them during a loss. I feel privileged to know their stories of courage and survival, tales of immigration and emigration, and rebuilding life by sheer will. It is humbling to be in such energy, such Light, that I return home a changed woman. Each time.  

Let us be as new explorers with fresh eyes this Season of Miracles. May we be reminded how, at the core, very little distinguishes one human from another human, an “us” from “them”, or a visitor from family. Sometimes all that bars us from accepting each other is a cultural oversight, a language barrier, or a simple difference between the Humanity that connects us all.

2014 © DNKG Beautiful Differences

White Chalk from my Black Jacket Pocket

I am a shadow of the night

a calm air upon your door

the haunting whistles rustling

the leaves outside your porch.

I am the moon's glow,

the howl from beyond the trees,

a shimmering eye from the forest

that chill your thighs.

I am the darkness lingering

under your chair, in the peaceful

space of your coach,

waiting for that perfect moment 

to writhe out. 

As you fall.

Fainting.

I am the second glance over your shoulder

when something feels uneasy and your

Spirit stirring self, silently, 

successively spots Source's sight

and yet

only to be taken by goddess' dark flight.

I answer the moon, the stars, the void.

Between, you think, lies very little.

For in the Sun you cannot see how

I beam and shine, like Sirius diamonds.

You desire this side, when darkness calls. 

Perhaps, I prefer the shadow of the night,

the silence of my halls

where creativeness falls and

Death is found whistling the

leaves outside your porch.

2012 © Yuriy Mironoff

2014 © DNKGrauman Chalk from my Pocket

The Worth of a Grain of Sand

A woman is walking down the warm coastal shores. She feels the sand between her bare feet, cold and dry. The wind picks up and the zephyr of the sea lovingly caresses her hair. She smiles at how it simultaneously manages to take her breath and worries away. Her hands gird her barren shoulders, chilled by the sinking sun that is dissipating into the black oblivion. Her eyes tenderly locked on a couple sitting atop the shore embankment, a silhouette frozen in perfection.

Upon an heirloomed blanket that her Bubbe had given to her as a Bat Mitzvah, she sits and inhales the salty shore air. It was the first time in years that she had noticed the sky and the pelicans soaring overhead. The voracious wind surrounds her and cleanses her body unlike ever before. Staring out into the hypnotic swells, vibrations rouse her skin as the surf kisses the shore. She allows her heart to match the rhythm of the tide.

As the bon fire roars, she gathers sand within her hands. She walks alone by the bay admiring the eternal birth of the moon from its watery home. The stars illuminate the sky, and she begins to remember. She recalls the stories of her grandparents’ treacherous emigration to these exact shores without anything but the clothes on their backs. She thinks of grandaunts and granduncles that mutely wore jagged numbers down their arms. One look at the moon transports her to countless hours spent making challah and learning to kindle Shabbat candles with her mother. Cupping the sand close to her bosom, tears rolling down her cheeks, she realizes that each grain holds the story of her family.

As she unfurls her grip, thousands of grains of sand scatter her memories into the sea. Transcendentally, she realizes that family and her spiritual connection to them can never be severed by death. Each grain reminds her that through exploration and adventure, one discovers how to connect with the heart of the universe; to the Divine itself. It is a welcome flush from the unconscious repetition of modern living.

 © DNKG 2014  Worth of a Grain of Sand

Let Creation Set You Free: Poetry

Untitled

Vision of the past
swell inside her heart
the shadow of a broken dream
a life shattered,
imagined to have been perfection

a quivering lip and shaky hand
are the only visible signs
of scars left unspoken
perhaps its the revenge
that keeps her questioning
or perhaps its the atonement
that keeps her cold,
a poisonous house
in which none could grow.

standing alone in the dark lot
staring at the lights, enter the rain
her mind returns to that night
when eternity changed for her
she waits anxiously in the cab
legs shaking so rapidly
the rhythm annoyed

waiting, aching, scared, petrified
dark, dark and disgraced, she disappeared
the whispering glow and painted graffiti
were witness to her opprobrium;
shadows encroach on her
laugh at her doom
laugh at her future now destroyed
laugh at the choices she must make

Sullied was the fibrous essence
tainted in the Dogma of 2000 years
confused, conflicted by instinct
she sits on the curb
juggling...

emotions, thoughts, corporeal responses
he, in all his love for her, he
stoops along her side; embrace.
"Everything is going to be okay"
he whispers unassuredly
she lies, "I know"

weeks pass, the fatigue noticeable
her advisors and associates remark
performance is poor, "you're not yourself"
she witnesses change, he can see it to.
Afraid of excommunication, terrified of execution
paralyzed by the Present;
FROZEN
with no time to waste

Snow falls upon the roof. The world is quiet.
In her silence she waits
In his arms does she seek refuge
only to pull away
writhing on the floor, hiding her face from the pain
tears of self-loafing, relief, and despair fall in the carpet
her hands the only bloody witnesses to existence that withers away from her

Decades pass. Lives press forward. Recollections Fade. All but one.
In the recesses of the shadows of her lies a memory
branded on the most damaged part of her soul.
Shame. Embarrasment. Hate.
Years of guilt that cannot be unbound
She cannot save herself.
She is trapped in a cesspool, dying and re-dying everyday

Vision of the past
Bondage of time, being set free
meditations on the heart and mind
heal the clouds that darken the day
pink heart in hand with "love" it is written
a simple sigh and a tender phrase
repaired the damage from eons ago.

Death, demise, execution- Perish
She saved him
only to have him
save her
so that she could save him
again with her last dying breath.

He utters,
"Warrior Mother.
Never change your colors.
Until our next lifetime.
I love you"

DNKG

Untitled © 2014