What does it mean to return? To arrive? I’ve returned to New York. Or have I arrived? It kept raining today, soft plopping rain, and then loud obnoxious streams of water falling hard on the pavement. I keep being surprised how things change-- new stores, gleaming on the street corners –sparkling, confident, and welcoming. I re-visit stores like Fresh out of nostalgia. I notice how the Banana Republic on 5^th Avenue off of Union Square looks a bit older this time because I guess it would be considered old now –having opened at least five years ago now. Maybe this is called culture shock, and yet, I can cocoon myself in Manhattan, in its familiar streets for a short while before being rudely jolted into realizing that every day people are streaming into this city with dreams bigger and more brilliant than I ever dared to imagine, even while I was here. You can see it in the courteous smiles of sales people, who strike up conversation with you over merchandise. What are they trying to be on their off time, when we’re not making superficial connections over how much we love Fresh’s soy face cleanser. Every day I’m closer to the day when I’ll have to leave again. And I’ll have to return to Beijing, or will I be arriving, again? When will I dream again like those who’ve finally arrived in New York? How do you reach behind the veneer to tap into the streams that flow beneath the concrete, the endless glitter of products, the gloss of couture?

Being away, I felt myself lose more of myself into this vacuous puddle of nothingness. I know it’s a matter of perspective, which is something I obviously lost along the way. Maybe now I’m trying to get it back. Reach my hands, then my arms deep into this opaque pool of substance to pull out shreds of the past and its lace-like memories—scattered remnants of dreams, half-forgotten. I have forgotten so much. I want to name something Soledad, traditionally a Spanish name, that refers to the virgin Mary, just to give this word corporeal substance. The name got stuck in my head today. Soledad, Spanish for solitude. There is such beauty in solitude, in the ephemeral oneness of one, the solitary, simple, solace of being in your own skin and knowing this moment is one complete moment. Soledad. Oneness encompasses more than singleness—it is complex, plural, multifaceted completion- a one with infinite layers of infinite depth. Soledad. I like the way it sounds, the way the sounds fall from my lips, the softness of the final ‘d’ in soledad, as if it landed on a pillow. In solitude I remember, reminisce, sort out conversations I still haven’t had.

I’ve had bhangra stuck in my head all day. I keep hearing the same flirtatious melody swirling through my memory and the earthiness of the bass grounding it, and I’m just letting the sound penetrate my skin. I haven’t danced like this in a long time. Haven’t danced with this much freedom, with this much joy. It was a kind of interior exercise in forgetting, letting go, following the bass, and somehow finding myself miraculously anticipating the next change in music. Basic rule of bhangra, we were told: when all else fails, just keep your shoulders moving. While watching, I realize, it’s more than just shoulders: that discreet smile curling around their lips reveals a perfect contentment, an intoxification with life. Watching them dance makes me happy. It’s startlingly, strangely simple. There’s a beat, a melody, voices singing, it’s projected into the room, and everyone’s dancing.