"Tell me a story about anxiety."

Once upon a time on a Friday in Madrid, I stepped out of the flying compartment in the sky and kissed the air with my excitement. My back nagged at me, the weight of my overpacking motivating her discomfort. She thought she couldn't keep up with the pressure. My anxious self felt at home in this feeling of newness, of difference, of sameness in difference. What was a deep breath, anyway? I sucked in just enough air to take me from un café to un vino tinto. It was Fall, after all. If my memory's sharp enough, I can still feel the vibration of Plaza Mayor stirred in with the atmospheric desire to be European. I remember the stray cats were well fed, spaghetti and meatballs licked, then tossed down the stairs outside her sitting post. Fat cat. Wait, that must have been Istanbul. Different year, different month, same desire to be European in the air. There, too, my anxiety felt at home. My fast-moving legs through Grand Bazaar, overstimulated by sounds and senses and smells on my way to sip the black tea that would be absorbed by the creamy crunch of Künefe between my four front teeth. I remember being sat down by gravity that night, having reached 33,000 steps. What were feet, anyway? Because I couldn't feel mine. The water was so cold and the current so strong. I'd forgotten about the feminine force of mother nature. She held onto my ankles, daring me to join her as she danced through mini-boulders, the remnants of her laugh sprinkled across leaves and the tops of my cheeks. Wait, that must have been Arusha. Same year, same month, same overstimulation by sounds, senses, and smells. This time, green. Tons of green. Fresh and wet. My heart smiled, I remember, for it felt kindled in love and comfort by naked spirits dancing to the rhythm of bird feet landing on tree branches and wings gathering wind in flight. Magic was in the air. My memory tells me, in its way, that I stepped into a portal of dreams. Many portals, in fact. That the Nkem of that following Monday in October in Madrid was not the same as the Nkem of the Friday before. That the fat cats rolling leftover meatballs with their noses had something to show me as I bound down the stairs with my not-yet-achy legs. That as the black tea and Künefe straddled each other, making love all the way down my esophagus, I was being prepared to commune with Mother Earth. I think about her often. Firm, powerful, reliable. I can feel her on my ankles still, inviting me home, a place soothing to my senses; my soul. Where my anxiety can rest and my spirit dance naked to the collective rhythm of the unseen around me.