Instead of fussing
with packages to be sealed with tape that’s splitting on its roll, and packing
heavy (boring) books to carry in a bag I’ve yet to pack, I want to be writing—to pull
rabbits from hats, haring swiftly through expanses of sage and mountain schist;
pull silk scarves from my sleeves, colored garnet, lemon, and burnt orange or
maybe persimmon; weave unicorn tapestries; cook posole with smoky red peppers
or even lovely shrimp for an insouciant flavor; watch ancient olive trees
achieve their four-hundredth summer or fall, as philosophical as the best
teachers I have had teach me.
But time is up, and
I must march off on my trip; a prisoner of other people’s time. I’ll take my meditation tapes and two
new British mysteries, but probably not the fat twig with lichens I found this
morning that connects me strongly to the earth, my comfortable heart-felt home.
I’ll see a play on
Broadway; visit my favorite Greek restaurant outside of Crete. I’ll work mostly, and stay inside,
imagining what’s out. I’ll love the
time away, I hope, but my homebody twin is bidding me stay. Is anxious, unsettled, yearning for the return.
image: She Who Is
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