Feeling at Home

Oh hey, I didn’t see you there. It’s been a while. Don’t worry, I’m still bad at texting back. I’m still not answering unknown numbers. I’m still deleting instagram every other day. I’ve been living on the coast (what coast?? if you know, you know) for the last five months and instead of reaching out into the community, I’ve been deep diving into depths of my own creation. I’ve been pulling tarot cards and laughing at my heavily scorpio/capricorn astrological chart because, duh, I make so much more sense now. I’ve been coming to grips with my creativity and what it means to spiral through cycles of inspiration and imposter syndrome. I’ve been talking to dead people because they’re my mom, my best friend, my grandma and why the fuck wouldn’t I talk to them? All this to say I’ve been changing. And staying the same.

I’m inhabiting myself in a new way these days. I guess that’s what happens when you live on the edge of the world and in close relationship with crashing waves and endless horizons. I wake every morning to walk Jackson along the brink of the continent, a place that is outside of time it’s so close to forever. I traverse the same rocky cliffs I mastered as a child. A mountain goat, sure footed and steady I find hidden pockets to hide within, just me and the ancient ones, a rock face and the sea. I wander the same streets I walked with my mother, listening to their stories as they bring me home again and again. I wonder if I am deserving of this life and remember that it was only made possible through death. Only made possible through losing myself and everything I held dear. If you’re never lost, you’ll never be found.

I’ve watched the wicked winter unfurl into a spontaneous spring, untamed and free and I’ve felt myself bloom alongside the roses and wild irises. I gave myself permission to return to my heart. The one made of rhododendrons and apple blossoms, that was buried under the bridge by my home, left languishing and forgotten for ten years while I built myself a new one made of black walnuts and pomegranate flowers. Now I get to hold them both with equal reverence, how lucky I am to know two homes so intimately, so close. Grateful, I am grateful.

Grateful that I’ve returned. That I’ve come full spiral back to the place that birthed me and broke me. Grateful that I can feel the earth and the stars so close here that I can’t help but remember they’re what I’m made of. Grateful for the friends who have found their way home or found their home here, who hold me close and don’t ask questions, who show me things I never knew about myself. Grateful for rainy days and fog because they remind me to be grateful for the sun. Grateful for seagulls and ravens and the delicate dance of Darwin’s theories on survival playing out before my eyes. Grateful for the spirits, all of the spirits, who make their presence known in the way the light dances across a room, the well timed hummingbird, the perfectly placed abalone shell. Grateful for the space to feel all of these things that keep me coming back to myself and grateful for the privilege to do so.

So no, I’m sorry, but I won’t get back in a timely manner. I’m too busy feeling the way the sand grits between my toes and an unusually warm spring breeze flows past my cheeks. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, I’m just distracted re-learning the language of home.

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