I picked two bunches of fireweed on the road back from the lake (where my missing towel wasn’t). I added a trio of raspberry leaves and sweet purple clover on the road I’ve walked alone and with a dog and falling in love and crashing out of love. I put them in a jar of clear, strong vodka and set them on the railing of my deck, of the house that is mine and only just becoming mine, that is exactly what I need and not what I’d planned. And I left them there to distill, to seep and relax and release whatever it is they can give me that I need. I’ll leave them there in the moonlight that can’t shine through the smoke that has been hanging in the air for so long it feels like forever in both directions.
Everything feels like forever. Maybe because it is– not in the guarantee of the future but in that there is no future, there’s only this. There’s only center and self, because you can’t be anywhere but center and there isn’t any other you but you.
So, that’s what’s brewing. In the jar. In the present. In myself: forever, exactly now.