Hello from cloudy Vermont. Last week I did one of my best pieces of writing, and about half of you read it. I think it has to do with word choices matching up to Facebook algorithms. I guess “phenomenology” doesn’t cut it in the social media world.
This week I’m writing about time, and how quickly it passes. Yesterday I replaced my summer flowers on our porch with autumn fare–orange and cranberry gerber daisies, burgundy mums, a small pumpkin, and an arrangement of tall, soft pennisetum. Then I took a break and sat on our metal bench. Its red paint is peeling off in slivers. and sticks to our shirts when we get up. But I like its distressed look. Anyway, I thought how quickly things can change in a year. Like where home is. I remember when we moved into Schoolside, how excited I was to find my forever home, back in my hometown, near my parents and sisters. Twelve turns later, I feel like that for Soft Landing. Is there something wrong with my heart, that it can change loyalties with such facility?
My younger daughter and I planned to walk to our new village’s yearly Rocktoberfest this afternoon, but the clouds have taken on that mean look, and the wind’s picking up. I feel like curling up on the sofa and taking a nap, or better yet, crawling into a tent on a knoll somewhere, surrounding myself with wool blankets, and listening to the wind howl as I drift off to sleep. I’ve done that once or twice in my life, and am glad for the memory of it. Back then, nature wasn’t so complicated. I just went out into it. Now, my back hurts just to think of lying down on the cold, hard earth. And I don’t have to tell you how I feel about ticks. Time and aging and fear; it seems like my capacity to enjoy nature in the wild ways of my youth has long gone.
And now it’s time to close this post, and as I look back on my words, I realize that I really haven’t said much. Some weeks are like that. Are any of you in your fifties and still camping?
Check back next week for another segment of Finding Home.