A Level Head

featured in The Open Letters | by Olivia Wrobleski

From Olivia Wrobleski💌

The sun finally came out today.

I know it won’t last long – it’s only the beginning of spring, afterall.

Regardless, I opened the windows of my flat to the world and dusted myself off.

I like to welcome in the spring with a long walk – preferably by a body of water, but at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. Luckily, this time I live on an isthmus between two lakes; I like to walk to the closer of the two where I can go along the park and through the neighborhood.

It’s all quite mundane, really – but keeps my head level.

There’s a short jetty that curves out onto the lake that I make a point to reach the end of. I rarely stop to pause after touching the edge before turning back; perhaps it’s the feeling of being on the edge of something that I like more than the view.

Maybe I should stop this time – although I am trying to be better.

Two weeks ago I ventured out into the bitter cold for my nightly after-dinner walk. It was dark, a bit windy, and the air was incredibly dry, but nonetheless walking is good for the head. I shuffled along icy sidewalks, peering into the windows of passing houses.

The wind picked up when I got to the lake – so much so that I thought if I blew over I’d probably have to call it quits. Still, in the name of routine, I was determined to make it to the end.

My mother always told me I needed to improve upon my routine and that it would be good for me – this is me trying.

The further along I got the more the wind swelled:

Ice crashed into the rocks

Fish were expelled from the waves and onto dry land

Stars shone brightly amid the clear sky

Birds flew in murmuration.

I hate wind.

Have you ever seen starlings fly in murmuration?

In that moment I thought I might be seeing things — a trick of the light and a wild imagination. But, there they were, swooping and swaying through the storm; back and forth, up and down, in and around each other. Watching them made my brain numb as my eyes followed without direction, mesmerized and stuck in place.

Something in the way they moved, each shift in their formation, was deliberate, purposeful. I stood there – watching, waiting.

Is this for me?

We don’t know each other.

A circle, then a triangle, a square, then a star. Simple forms, things they wanted me to understand. Building upon the movement of their wings, the shapes became patterns which were woven seamlessly and carefully, at times repeating, but not too often. Then, each formation grew more complex, less recognizable. Jagged lines – swirls and squiggles that dissipated at a moment’s notice. Something that almost looked like a face.

A semblance of something that wasn’t really there at all.

The more I watched, the more I began to lose track, each change fragmenting into something like broken glass. Each movement in the dance only adding to confusion.

I wanted to give up, but I stood there frozen as they teased me.

The more my mind raced the more chaotic the murmurations became.

Spiralling –

Spiralling –

Spiralling –

We were spiralling.

Directly above me was a spiral of swallows playing among the constellations and slowly eating away at the moonlight. The spiral funneled in and out with the wind, shifting my body weight along with it until I was absorbed. My arms were lifted from below as my feet betrayed gravity and we danced together through interlocked rings.

We were sprialling.

I had thrown caution to the wind, dangling above the freezing water, without a care or end in sight. I could have been there forever – the birds didn’t owe me anything.

I’ve never been good at keeping to routine, but now that the sun has appeared today, I’d like to give it another try. My dad always tells me that walking is good for the mind.

It’s all quite mundane, really – but keeps my head level.

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About the Author:

Olivia Wrobleski is a writer, art historian, and artist with a B.A. in Art History from Mount Holyoke College and an M.A. from University of Edinburgh. She is the creator and editor of The Tub, an independent zine exploring art, culture, and contemporary life. Her writing has appeared in publications and projects for arts institutions including the Vilcek Foundation and Art UK. Through her work, Olivia brings together art history, criticism, and creative practice to explore the stories that shape how we see the world.

Substack ID: Olivia Wrobleski

Ig: thetubzine

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