Rains crested the mountain all day, torrential downpours washing away pollen and dust until I felt damp all the way down to my soul. The weather cleared up sometime around mid-afternoon as I approached my mailbox to sunlight lancing through the summer-heavy foliage above. In the sun’s rays, the mist leftover by the precipitation rose into foggy swirls throughout the forest, and I felt the ache in my chest diminish.

Later, after  a warm bath and two cups of Colombian coffee that did little but take the edge off my grogginess, I climbed in my car and headed out onto the town. I longed for smoke leaking from my mouth but resisted the urge to take my pipe with me as I drove away from the mountain and the hazy steam of the evening sun; I already liked the smell of lavender clinging to me from my bath, and I didn’t want to bury it under the sharp tang of tobacco–not today.

See the rising tide–
know it’s only a matter of time.”

Things have changed.

It’s hard to articulate these changes here. They were less outward than inward, less changes than decisions I made for myself. But I can see them–the shift in the atmosphere, the leaning to a different side, the emergence of a new persona. I can feel them as clearly as I feel the keys beneath my fingers while I type.

But to put them into words–that is a feat I have not yet mastered.

Take my broken hands;
takes a sunrise to understand.”

The week previous was highlighted by a single word in my mind, the Japanese for ‘change’–henka. I scribbled, messily, the kanji for it in my journal, my planner, on the back of my hand. I used it as my war-cry, a mantra meant for me and only me that would spur me on to decisions not yet made.

It worked. Change came.

Just not in the way I expected.

Then again, when does anything ever go the way one expects it to?

Oh, if it’s cold in the water,
am I better for it?
Oh, I can learn from my mother
If this sinking ship goes down.”


–“Sinking Ship”,
Wild Child


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