R.S. Evangelista

The sun rose with clouds covering its upward enclosure. Their hovering above can’t keep up with the break of the day. The fading orange softly utters an amen to another days beginning. I’m compelled to do the same. I’m on my way again, up in the air, traveling above a blanket of clouds now, the present soundtrack in my ears towards New York City. I haven’t been to this great city since 2002. And believe me, I’ve been trying to get there for some time now. I’m always putting out the idea to friends, hoping for a reason to make it.

Much of life changes over the course of a few years. To think for most of my upbringing, I was coming to visit year after year. My Grandparent’s home was an apartment in Forest Hills that my dad had spent most of his growing up years. I remember the overly-full stomach I had after every meal of oatmeal or pasta or pea soup. The upstairs was a couple of bedrooms, one of which hosted countless trophies of my father’s baseball glory days. He played college ball for St. John’s until he got hurt. There was a fire place on the main floor with photos of all of us grandkids scattered about on the sil. The couch in the living room was always covered with some plasticy material I can’t believe guests ever allowed, sitting near the windows facing the street. The
“dining room” was central, where the record player sang her tunes, leading to the kitchen with yellow wall paper making me feel at home.

But my favorite room was through the kitchen down to the basement. There was the antique smell, full of goodies, old collectibles from years of living, working and playing. For a kid like me it was perfect. And my brother and I would often create mischief and have Grandpa Benedito running down the stairs yelling at us in some Italian verbage. That of course only made us laugh and him more angry.

Since 2002, much of life has changed. My Grandpa has passed away. And in April of last year, Grandma Rose moved to Hilton Head  just 10 minutes away from my parents. My older cousin Laura and her husband have two children growing up. Cousin JP, just a month younger than I, lives in Manhattan working for the music industry. My Aunt and Uncle’s house was host to countless parties we attended, dressing up to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s.

I’ve not only graduated high school, but also college. Come May, I’ll have lived on the same street on the eastside of Atlanta for four years. My love for Atlanta has grown and grown and grown, rolling over from an ideal aspiration, to a pressing reality. I could spend the rest of my life there, live and die there, and not have any regrets.

Traveling is always more fulfilling and healthy if you know where home is. My roots have been sinking in to the city of Resurgence. But here I am on my way again, headed to another land. On Monday I’ll be touring around Upper Westside at Union Theological Seminary, the seminary of Columbia University. This could be my abode come September, taking classes on theology and culture.

Can I leave Atlanta, where too few people understand rootedness? Isn’t it true that Atlanta will be the same when I come back? I will be the one who’s changed. I don’t know if I want to let go of all the people I love, all of my places I stroll.

I guess I don’t have to answer these questions now. Let me enjoy my weekend retreat, my time with family amidst this great place, this cultural mecca of American society. We can tell stories, share in meals and remember our connectedness. Today I will leave my future behind me and enjoy the present. And when I return, the future will find its way in me once again.

I’ve a little more than an hour on the plane to express to you in words what seems inescapably difficult to grasp; why I went to Portland. Lately in my writing endeavors I feel more like the photographer attempting to freeze a moment that might capture more than a thousand words, yet you know that being there could’ve left you speechless like me. I would rather visit Antarctica than just see photos of it. I know it’s not the same. Is that why I just returned from Maine? There was something in early October that I had to experience that couldn’t be captured in any other art form except existence. If I show you some photos from my trip, you just wouldn’t get it. You’d wonder why I went.

I could write to you about the many pubs we sat in and the local beers Mike and I drank, some aged in oak-barrels, some spiced for seasonal greatness. Or I could tell you about the fine roasted coffee we sipped from Arabica, one of the dozen or so downtown, corner coffeehouses we passed. I could try to describe to you the changing of leaves we set our eyes upon from arrival to departure, rafting down Dead River category four rapids near Canada, or the yellow and red surrounding the city scene on every street turn, but sadly you weren’t with me experiencing Maine in transition.

I could try to describe to you Becky’s Diner on the main coastal strip where our waitress, Cameron chuckled as we admitted to being unfamiliar with haddock (quite delightful fish). There was also the hefty red-boiled lobster on the waterfront, and the tasty burger at the Great Lone Bear, a local joint in town. We met some folks and developed friendships, and of course amongst it all, watched and listened to Sufjan Stevens at the Port City Music Hall in a small crowd next to a couple of students from Gordon College. The whole getaway seemed right, as if our place was etched out for us there, and we rode in just in time to fill in the colors, the details.

And even though you weren’t there, I can tell you, things don’t just happen at random, but are intricately connected to something greater. I can be sure that I was supposed to be there. One thing I’ve been attempting to grasp lately is that it’s a healthy virtue to understand my place and be okay existing in it, to be happy and joyful where I am. And maybe that’s all I want to express. For the weekend, I was meant to be in Maine, and as I return, I know that I am supposed to be here, wherever and whatever here is. I’m all in. So if you’re still wondering why I left, I’m sorry. Maybe next time, I’ll leave you speechless.

A poem from the airline:

Is that the roar of a city I know?
like a lion or phoenix at the end
of their road?
But as I gain closure and move closer,
she regains her youth
and time hands over some back
and I think I might remember.

Yes. her beacon stands,
her fire glows
and the river flows with
that same red youth,
a passionate folk for hope.

And they have their laugh.
I can hear it.
like the child I remember in the summer lawn
rolling around next door.

Yes. This is home calling, as I fly in
over the horizon, and I know her well.
This is where I was born
and reborn with new life and new learning.

I hope they haven’t forgotten my name.
And I hope there’s a place for me behind the counter
and a place for me to rest my weary head.
I hope they remember me, because
I haven’t forgotten them.

The Chinese government has a tight reign on their people in certain ways. For example, I haven’t been able to use Facebook since entering their country. They have also blocked silly avenues like twitter. Some places don’t even allow for blogs. I’m at a western cafe in Kunming. This city has been a base for some of my travels. And as I was warned, even with strict planning, usually things change in China. We were set to spend most of this last week in the smaller city of Mangshi but ended up in Lijiang in the middle of Tiger Leaping Gorge for a couple of days. And we are only in Kunming long enough to catch a train to Guilin this evening where the remainder of our time will be spent before catching a train back to Shanghai to return to the States.

The beauty of the Jade Dragon Mountain range where Tiger Leaping Gorge is found should be comparable to the glory of the Grand Canyon. We left our luggage and took a van into the range before hiking for a few hours to the Tea Horse Guest House where we were surrounded by fifteen or so Brits engaging in a month long Kung Fu retreat. We feasted and rested instead as we looked out on the vast glory of the place we were in. And to arise and look out at these mountains as the sun rose was awe-inspiring. We hiked for a few more hours before riding a van around the cliffs back to Old Town. This renovated, historic village is a tourist hub for mostly the Chinese with some westerners intermingled. This Old Town has over 700 places to stay with hundreds of shops for the day and countless dance parties and live musicians that come alive at nights. It was wonderful to go from such natural beauty to such man-made beauty in just a few hours.

So those are some of the highlights, some of the joys of our experience thus far while traveling. The not-so-pretty part of traveling in China is, well; traveling. I was unfamiliar with the “sleeper” bus before my journey here. But now I am well-aquainted. They pack folks in to these tiny beds for overnight trips. There is barely enough room to move. I learned that I am more claustrophobic than I thought, and that I don’t sleep well on “sleeper” buses. I could mention that one bus stopped fourteen times. We picked up furniture and rice. We delivered them. There were drug checks, oil checks, maybe washer fluid checks. Only God knows. Some things don’t translate. I can’t do justice to the mixed-emotions I have for these inbetween transporters. Nevertheless we have arrived to each destination relatively safe and unharmed. And it doesn’t stop us from continuing to travel.

My apologies for not writing more often. I desire to write about once a week, but China slows that process down. My mind is sifting through many thoughts, and leaving home is an interesting thing as I suspected. My heart longs for Atlanta and the people there. It’s strange how being in foreign cities solidify my love for my place on the map on the other side of the globe. Traveling is worth the experiences, but rootedness is rich and fruitful for me, especially where there is such fertile soil to be had in my city. I image that is probably true for the most of us. If you get a moment to slow down, step back outside of your busyness and view the city as if you are half-way around the world. Atlanta is pretty grand, and it’s groaning for life to be had.

I wonder if the kids fighting for Abe, or the farmers for Lee knew what sort of road they were paving for me. Were they conscious of the effects one generation has to the next and the next and after? The fossils of the Civil War age still remain; trade routes and railroads,  but every decision and step taken still has an effect on my being. It’s compelling enough for me to care; to care about how my decisions and actions effect those around me and maybe one day our children.

And in China I can see a glimpse of the effects from revolutions and ideals and globalism. Our first couple of days was spent in Shanghai, and I already feel as if I’ve gained new knowledge and perspective. We visited a museum at the site of the First Congress of Communism in China and the Shanghai Museum. I’m a westerner through and through, so I know little about the rich history of this place and of the chaotic transitions of power in the twentieth century. But being here has reminded me, we are all intertwined and connected, somehow bearing a great Image beyond us, billions of people before and now and maybe after.

Does my walking on to this flight to Kunming matter as minuscule as if might seem? or my job and desires? If life is all linked, we are all pieces to some beautiful landscape and the puzzle usually is made of similar sized figures. Or maybe we transcend space and our pieces mean more and are bigger in certain times and places. I want to matter, and I want to have an effect on my children’s children. I also want to be connected with the nineteenth century tradesman that walked along Glenwood and Moreland before Sherman’s flaming torch. Or I want to be connected to the sister who sang in the age old cathedral up the street or around the globe even if she was born in Kunming, or rather, especially if she dwelled there. Tower of Babel go in reverse and gather the people again. Let me hear all men and women sing one song and dance to that tune and melody. I know it’s there. I know it exists. The flowers don’t need words like we do and still bow together in unison and all get along. Peace will return. Peace is coming and I stand on it strong.

–Chris and I are safe and enjoying our journey. We are in Kunming and will be travelling to Guilin next.–

Sometimes we get caught in quicksand and find ourselves on the brink of drowning, surrounded by solid land and wondering how we fumbled ourselves into such particularly unpleasant circumstances. There’s usually a graceful hand, a rope, or a bit of something sturdy to latch on to when we find ourselves in these desert times. And while there are often plenty of virtues to gain while wandering off the path or nearly losing life, it’s good to be back on a firm foundation. Sometimes it takes an unprecedented amount of patience and work to find a healthy home again.

This weekend I’m surrounded by friends to celebrate marriage. And even in our now scattered state, as we come together I can say we’re a testament of finding land after a quicksand last couple of years. And sacred, adventurous commitments like marriage can add thoughts of hope and redemption to a world where fleeting desires push us around with the wind. Long rehearsals might be hot on a saturday afternoon in the gardens of Atlanta, but taking time to embrace these moments help us to not forget what we get ourselves into, the good, lasting bonds we share. I complained while sweating in the heat too. But I am thankful now and will hopefully continue to be.

And in all of the wedding events I am present but also adrift. My thoughts are wandering off to the East. I don’t mind, because in less than a week I’ll be galavanting across the North Pole in hopes of finding some of my own adventures. Chris Jones(a brother of brothers) and I will be heading for Shanghai next weekend. And this also is a testament to hope through the storms of life, for we too were pulled out of some quicksand. I’m a romantic, so travelling is grand and exciting, and most healthy if you know where home is, otherwise you might get lost again. And I think I’m on to something, and about calling Atlanta my humble abode; my speck in the history of a long line of humans to walk the face of earth. I’ve said I would go anywhere and do anything, and may this journey be an honest example of who I desire to be. I admit I’m not often in that frame of mind and spirit. And I’ll return, like I always do, in a few short weeks and hopefully with a bit of newness on my back and in my heart. And maybe I’ll serve coffee again, and love and feast(from the garden) with the ones that find home on this little speck of a city too. If I’m blessed enough, I might even find something underground, maybe a piece of restoration that we could use here in the West.