[Some words and pictures; Summer Solstice to Fall Equinox, 2018]
On Saturday I touched everything I own. Rather than packing, this time it’s been a shedding. I’ve estranged every object I won’t touch daily.
Mostly this is a series of entrustings. The bike with Oliver, the parcels to Virginia, the oils with Anastatia, and on, belongings splayed across space and the packing for the trip becomes the negative. The neededs have already persisted.
I learn this song: ‘I feel the winds of the west outbreath Letting go of my leaves, all I do not need Into the darkness of the fall sunset I release, receive Getting ready for the silence’
In the last days of this summer, I lived in a canvas tent in New Hampshire, and taught a series of sustainable living courses to university students, 10th graders, and 7th graders-- waking up in the pre-dawn gloam to sing students awake for farm chores, cooking breakfast over fire, romping in the mushroomed woods, curriculum on natural construction, food processing, paddling and climbing, living in community.
This season lays itself into my hand, warm and prepared. To harvest the corn I weave into the rows scanning the vertical for crookedness, for cresting out.
Tilting away from the stalk is a form of offering.
The waxing moon becomes more beautiful in no longer being new.
The summer was a time of gathering togethers-- family in Chicago, New England Quaker teens in VT, Regenerative Culture Living Laboratory in Savoy, MA. ‘Claiming those who provide you with ground to stand on’ ‘The study created by relationships’ ‘Faith means doing what you’re called without any assurance of what will come.’
My canvas tent smells like old bread and dew. Kicked out, botado at the backside of the light. Humped over, almost-feelings nudge the edges of my almost-tears. I thrust every edge of energy at the cackling day.
What are the times in our days when we are occupied with remembering our lives? Recordarse, acordarse, estar de acuerdo, agreement, rememberment. Perhaps when I said ‘I wish I had a place’, I meant I wish I had a place for you.
I didn’t set out to make a life where poetry was the steadiest thing.
But transition is a place I want to dwell, to be so clear-eyed towards the exact vagueness of in-between. I counted 76 different places I’ve slept so far this year. Some nights the moon doesn’t rise, but rather emerges from the light.
'Oh, wind, carry us now Like milkweed silk and send us out Oh, send us out.'
I'm beginning the months of Borderlands travels and investigations.