Departures
The next three months of my life are packed into ziplocs and mesh and scattered across the floor. They have been rolled and squished and stacked and prioritized. Taken out, put back in.
Taken out.
A duffel bag heavy with books and sunflower seed butter, a backpack stuffed with clothes that may blow off the clothespinned lifelines of the boat on windy afternoons, my messenger bag with a computer, an Ipad, a camera, and a fancy phone that will be useless in 48 hours.
A dishwasher full of clean dishes, birds chirping on the trees outside, the bay doing it's sparkle thing outside the window, the pelt of a squirrel layered in salt hidden in the cupboard, a ring of farm dirt in the tub, the remnants of cabbage and rosemary in the lower drawers of the fridge.
These are the things I am leaving this morning.
These are the things in my immediate vicinity.
Friends, experiences, incredible connections that I've searched for, made here, reveled in:
those aren't the things I'm leaving; they are the things I am coming back for.
Taken out.
A duffel bag heavy with books and sunflower seed butter, a backpack stuffed with clothes that may blow off the clothespinned lifelines of the boat on windy afternoons, my messenger bag with a computer, an Ipad, a camera, and a fancy phone that will be useless in 48 hours.
A dishwasher full of clean dishes, birds chirping on the trees outside, the bay doing it's sparkle thing outside the window, the pelt of a squirrel layered in salt hidden in the cupboard, a ring of farm dirt in the tub, the remnants of cabbage and rosemary in the lower drawers of the fridge.
These are the things I am leaving this morning.
These are the things in my immediate vicinity.
Friends, experiences, incredible connections that I've searched for, made here, reveled in:
those aren't the things I'm leaving; they are the things I am coming back for.
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