I Forget

 
A Fierce Practice 7 27 17
 

I forget why I come back to this place. Why this is my place. I am away more than here of late. And it takes a toll. 

It is grounding to be back, if even briefly. 

I find and re-find my sustenance here. The balance. The reasons. I do not need to remember them, they flood back to me when I return.

They themselves return, throughout the year, like old friends. Phone messages jotted in pencil on scraps of paper blown away. I have lost my reminder to return the call. I forgot. 

And August rolls back around the the goldenrod calls again. Herself forgetting she called before, last year. That it's been months since we have heard each other's voice, rested hands on shoulders. Been visible. Remembered. There is nothing to forgive. There is no expectation in the months of ice or spring flood or canary grass and chicory and yarrow and thistle that she should be on my mind. Not when there is so much else. So much in front of me. 

That is how this place is. 

Here without need. Without need for apology. 

Where is your place?

The complete missive lives HERE.