Marianne Maili

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I write about adventure. And relationships. Which are similar. I write about relationships with oneself and others. Also similar. How we live with ourselves and how we live with others. Ditto. Adventure can be physical, emotional, spiritual. Relationships, too. One can travel far into oneself and far out into the world. These journeys are inseparable. How to remain whole in a world that tries to break us into pieces?  What kind of risks do we take and what and who constitutes their value? How much are our lives worth to us? Do we extend that to others? How can we not?  I follow these questions like clam trails in the shallow part of the lake, looking for the life they lead to. I rarely have answers to the big questions other than to ask more. Curiosity is the driving force of my life. I also write about creativity. Curiosity and creativity. We are all creative. “What are you creating with your life? Are you living according to your values?” I ask myself and the characters I write about. On Saturdays I like to take Divvy Bike adventures around the city. This morning I rode north to vote in the French elections, and I saw beauty everywhere. I also write about beauty. I liked seeing the French, American, and Chicago flags flipping in the wind, tethered and flying together. Could all of humanity do that–stay connected while flying?  Imagine a world without nations, without flags. Human beings being human as sole identity. And today especially as thousands march to remind us to think about our relationship with the earth, with creation. How do we treat who and what nourishes us? How do we nourish mother earth? How do we nourish ourselves and others?

I see a fountain sprinkling, as if onto the diners in the sunshine, at the restaurant across the street. A vision within a vision as I look through my window and theirs at waiters carrying wine glasses. It looks like Europe in there. In here I am looking at piles of writing, drawing, and photographs. Wondering what to do with it and how much it matters. Both a lot and not at all, it seems.  Moved by re-reading the exegesis I wrote for the PhD, the clarity and depth of it. Tears rose as I read sentences in it, then again as I peered into the excerpts of twenty-six years of diaries. The folders of family history. Notebooks with poignant and funny things parents and son said to me. The novel-in-progress waits for my daily visit. The first one, Lucy, go see., pulls at my pant leg, asking “when are you going to introduce me to more people?”