Awoke again from the now recurring dream where the plane is leaving in 40 minutes and we're still at home packing with no near end in sight. Packing things like tupperware and loaves of bread & it seems I have no rational sense whatsoever.
Upon waking, as if speaking kindly to a child, I remind myself of the things that I am excited about there to ease myself into letting go of here:
In ten days I will be sleeping in Virginia Woolf's neighborhood instead of in my own. In eleven days I'll see Oxford for the first time from a train window. In thirteen days I'll be attending a different Unitarian Church in a building from 1000 c.e. and then in the afternoon Jack & the Beanstalk with Naya at the Oxford Playhouse. In fourteen days...
... & of course, in 129 days we'll be flying back to these mountains, it will be dark, the stars will be out, and I will step off the plane and smell spring and mountains, and we will arrive home to give our big fluffy puppy a hug & I will sleep in my own bed again & have dreams, perhaps of the time in Oxford. & perhaps they will be recurring & lovely.
About Me
- ~Sabine~
- Part of me wants to grab hold of all the possibilities in urban epicenters like Oxford, Paris, Montreal, NY, Vienna, yet another part remains very embedded here in WF wanting nothing more than the quiet, coziness & certainty of these mtns, of the songbirds at our feeder, of the ebb & flow of a sense of place. Yet when all of the doors are flung widely it is there that I find my deepest sense of place. I'm presently trying to fling open doors as if I'm in a smoldering university town from this wee little ski town not bent on full access to its inmost layers. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I get very tired.
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