The world was tilting hard for a while, and it’s good to feel more upright. (I wonder: did we need to lean so far we turned over completely? Or was it more about giving in to the strength of the wind? Or was it always going to be like this and no amount of my messing with the sails made any difference except to how I told myself the story?)
The child is back. The house is discernably more orderly (though far, far from order). The body slipped quickly into cool water in the evening sunlight, and before that slept heavily on the deck, and before that shifted boxes from Here to There like a squirrel stowing away nuts.
I woke early– much earlier than expected– and I walked to town. I talked with a woman who is also rebuilding a home (“This is the last time,” she said, “no more house hopping.”) I took her clothesline Ts that are so like the ones I shimmied up at my grandma’s house when I was a kid. I took her offering of raspberry canes, too, though the woods around me might laugh to see me plant what already grows freely everywhere.
I went to the lake. I know I already said that, but I went twice: once in the morning and once at the end of the day. Before and after the dark sky that brought soaking rain and cool air.
It matters what we repeat, what we return to, what we do over and over.
Brigette told me, “This is a deepening of a lesson,” the one I thought I was doing pretty dang well on already, the one I hadn’t been wanting extra homework for.
Tonight I lit my candle again and at last. Burned sage and palo santo. I can finally reach them without climbing over all the things it was so important to keep. Tomorrow I’ll go to work, do the Monday things. And then the Tuesday ones after that. I’ll make supper for myself and my favorite kid. Feed the pets. Move more boxes. See what keeps looking for my attention, notice what repeats.