boone road

Since I was young, I had an awareness of how the country, nature, fills me with life.  My mind starts clearing, thoughts become lucid and beautifully supple.   I can think beyond the next step.  And that is so, so refreshing.

It’s funny because I don’t fit in here.  Though I fit in very few places, it is very evident that I don’t fit in here.  Each social interaction leaves me uncomfortable, like itchy but on the inside.    

I’m distinctly aware of the fact that I’m intimidating.  And, though I don’t  mean to be, it serves me.  I get looked at but never approached, like your grandmother‘s favorite porcelain doll.  I get distance, glorious open distance.  I have carved out a small circle here, boundary lines for privacy and sanity.  And my lungs open, my mind quiets, and all that’s left is the sound of the wet earth sinking a little under each step.

There’s something about the air here.  All of it really– the air, the dirt, the wind.  It all has a kind of lazy electricity about it.  And I feel at ease here.  My delicate balance is easy to maintain.  I find secret pockets of time, fill them with the sound of this ranch, the animals and the sunshine and the steady flow of the creek.  

I feel like writing, like playing, like running until my body burns and shines and cries out.
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Arriving here, it was pelting rain, pouring down from the dark skies.  Then, as I was leaving the train station, the sky started to fill with bursts of light.  Tree outlines, green meadows of grass, even the color of the sky light up for a split second then sank back, blurred by the water and the darkness.   

That lightning storm brought me to life.  And here I am, sustained.