Espresso black.

Saturday, August 30. Favorite cafe at home. Salsa dancing in the back room. Quiet coffee-scent in the front.

Existing as a creative being isn't just about producing vibrant paintings, melodic acoustic songs, or going to poetry readings. Embracing one's creativity is also about finding one's deepest joys in daily moments, about becoming alive and seeing life as more than a schedule and a box.

This week I’ve felt so alive. The only way I can animate such a feeling is this image: when my siblings and I were little, we’d gather in my twin sisters’ bedroom just before 7am on Christmas morning, and then jump and pound on the creaking, poorly laid floorboards that doubled as the ceiling of my parents’ room, “Good morning!! Wake up!” Joy so physical that it borders overwhelming annoyance. That was me this week.

Last Friday I sliced open my hand while climbing a tree in Grant Park. Of course (with my ridiculous desire to always be “hardcore”), I loved it. Monday night I became irreparably grumpy when my bike-greased hands failed to successfully secure the back wheel. Tuesday I bought raspberries and blueberries at the farmers’ market on Adams and Dearborn. Back in the office Tuesday afternoon, I realized my hands were still grimy with bike-grease (in some crevices that defied Monday night’s scrubbing), now covered in bright fuchsia raspberry juice, and scabbing quite gracefully from the tree incident. In that moment, I realized I had embraced summer fully.

Wednesday night I went to BajoFondo Tango Orchestra in Millennium Park. Exhilarating. What performers. I thought I would burst of joy and energy. I went with other life-filled friends, and we danced and grinned like little kids, and screamed and loved it. And dancing tango outside to a live orchestra… nothing beats it. I sucked up my dancing insecurity and approached two of the best tango dancing Chicago men and (defying all tango etiquette) asked them to dance! And I think I did okay… perhaps they’ll give me the ever so slight eye-point-to-dancefloor invite next time we’re in the same room…

Thursday night I made pesto and then laid on a pier with a friend, fell in love with the light-pollutioned pink sky, and embraced the gentle drizzle of rain that skimmed my cheeks. Friday I went to immigration court, met a lovely woman from Eritrea, met genuine-hearted attorney who grew up in a small town outside where I grew up, and had lunch with them. That evening a dear friend and I drove to my home, windows down, listening to mixed CDs from 1994, and took turns holding the steering wheel so we could look out the sunroof at the magenta and Crayola mountain purple sunset, and then the starry, espresso black sky.

Today I woke early, ate locally made jam and toast, yoga in the sun, did everything local possible, made sure the juice from farmers’ market peaches ran down my chin, and picnic-d at a vineyard as the sun disappeared behind a lake and forests. And I write as I drink a Cuban coffee from the perfect espresso cup, saucer and spoon.

Life is so beautiful and colorful and full. I am overwhelmed.