I have become deeply acquainted with liminal space. I know well the jagged trails in the landscape of time between what once was and what could be. I carved them. Breadcrumbs scattered, reminding me of the "just in case". My body arches naturally into the posture of reaching, curving forward into endless unknowns. The circular inertia of suspended space sometimes seems like like a second home.
Today, I find myself utterly, blissfully without a "plan". This is a new way. Home. Here. Is this a bridge? A highway? An off ramp? A construction site? Is it a forest? An ocean? Is this before? It is after? I am sometimes disoriented by how comfortable I am here, so surrendered to and surrounded by the invitation to simply be.
I'm writing about what it's like here, where I am now. Because it, too, will change. I want to know HERE so well it becomes me, so wherever I am and whoever I am, I am always HERE. Not this moment, not these details, but this way. This way of HERE.
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I love it here.
Here, where the thin-ness of last year has filled back out.
Here, where there is enough.
Here, where my currency is freedom and I’m floating.
Here, where evenings are silk robes and red wine and living room dancing.
Here, where my edges soften and settle into legs tangled under bedsheets.
Here, with sweaty champagne bottles and lazy pool days.
Here, where laughter loosens panic’s grip on my throat.
Here, where the truth spills out in long exhales, easy and free as water.
