I’m just visiting. I’m paying rent, passing through. There’s no need for roots to take hold, no need to stand here for too long. I don’t want the algae to grow or the mosquitos to swarm. Movements at random, frenetic wanderings, sudden goodbyes and shaky, blurry-eyed good mornings. Negligence in the form of distraction; distraction disguised as ambition; ambition masquerading as rhythmical, lyrical, seasonal fluidity.
I have a daydream of a home, probably up north, but not too far north. I daydream about sitting still long enough to see things grow and blossom and wilt and die around me, only to see them rise out from ground anew in the spring.
In the daydream I meet the reality of the place that hosts me with open, focused eyes. I get close enough to know what it needs, to see it through the winter, to consider the consequences of connection and choose to stay in spite of them. I replace the novelty of newness with the vulnerability of commitment.
In the daydream I don’t drive around so much.
In the daydream I’m trying to stay put, or maybe to ride along, to feel rhythms I’ve resisted, to let the cold permeate and trust that the eventual sun will thaw what’s frozen.
In the daydream I learn not to linger too much in analysis of the past. I learn to bring the old stories with me through the transitions, to succumb to rhythms, to gravity, to the irreversible nature of negligence and mistakes. In the daydream I move forward, out of the shadows of winter.