The place where I live contains both where I’ve been and where I am going.  The sweet breeze that sings me to sleep at night through cracked windows reminds me of the soothing that was dictated by falling on top of blankets and the yellow bandana that my mother dipped in ice water for me and put around the back of my neck – the spot where body heat always condenses.

The magnolia blooms that shoot out every spring from my childhood window are embedded in my memory enough to find their way into my current backyard, where the reality looks more like grass and dirt; Stipulations from landlords making it impossible for the tree to truly manifest.  

Houses now are connected by prayer flags and driveways that open my mind to ideas of intention and community, thoughts that were only real in musicals and within directions on companion planting.  The place I am about to land is already feeling nostalgically like the home elucidated from that same yearning.  The longing that was mused by open land [not yet] turned into housing developments, and singing families that never go to bed at the same time.

The reaction to morning and night has altered sparingly amongst place. Possibility juxtaposed with stillness adds weight to the balance similar to the space between my hips and the spiral as both move around and around, only existing if the work is done together.  

As long as water is near, a sense of lightness in the morning is promised, and archetypes of mothers exist in a stranger’s embrace, then I am home.