[Musings upon taking job #2, getting swallowed into an MFA program (!!!), and preparing (again) to forward my mail.]
Something happens when you pull a plant from its roots. Soil scatters; what once securely clung to familiar earth and worms is now dangling in clear sight: we spot the underbelly of what's grown. And can't look away.
I'm a bit like that dangling plant as I dismantle my life in Raleigh into boxes. First the books I know I won't touch in a month's time, then the winter clothes: the scarves with stale Chanel perfume buried deep in their weave, the unraveling hat that I've put off fixing. I keep meaning to grab some gray yarn. The little things we sweat for up and down stairs into trailers and trucks to carry into vacancy.
At work, I open my desk drawer. A bag of vitamins I never swallowed. (Sorry, mom.) A Lilly's pizza menu. A 2009 Calendar. Great pens I never used. Oh, what we could've had if only I would've looked deeper into the drawer for you. Seashells. Rocks collected from the North Sea shore. I remember that long walk in May, my dear sister.
It's easy to get romantic. I'll be writing poems amongst great poets and writers in a town conducive to doing so. I'll be hot with only an air-conditioning unit. I'll walk most places. Eat simple food. When we paint our dreams, how often do we expect them to pop from the page?
Meanwhile, I'm knitting a washcloth I've been knitting for a month. You just can't do it all.