let go.

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 And all of a sudden today I leave here for good. For the second day now, I woke up in the morning not feeling well at all. Can’t breath, eyes crusted shut, glands swollen.

It’s the mold. Too much for me. While all the rain has been lovely, this old house can't handle it. What began as a faint musty smell has bloomed into east coast basement smell. The point of coming here is to feel better not just a different kind of sick. So that’s it. Such a quick turn around, but I know in my bones I have to go. So I’ve spent the day packing up when what I thought today would be was sketching and writing and –breathing-.

Methodical and too familiar, I begin with my clothes, towels, bedding.
Then books, arts supplies, movies. Boxes. Bags.

Moving mode is like a ghost at my back. Triggering.
I’ve done this too many times. Too many.

Adrenaline arrives to carry me.

I’m efficient, numb to my surroundings.

Can’t rest til its done.

but the land keeps poking me , piercing the numb with humming or blue birds, tiny horny toads or a soft warm clean wind across the open endless grass.

and pierced, I weep.
Then gather myself and push on...toothbrush, soaps and lotion.

 Lastly, I dismantle my little shrine, bury the  contents of the bowl (dirt, seeds, a small petition, a blue candle ) in the yard at the base of the fruit tree sapling. I drop the coins down the old hand dug well in front of the house and make a wish.

Actually 2.

Country home.

Enough.