Came in from some holiday time away today and my god, it's good to be home.

I loved being away though. But strangely, away in the sense of not being away at all, but being present while being somewhere in which I can sense myself in my surroundings more acutely. Yes, away from the usual responsibilities, but recovering the imagined detachment of myself to the singularity of my identity as a natural being. So 'away' in this case is really 'here,' I suppose.

And last night, I must say, was precious. I crave my solitary and there I was on a high hill in the middle of a wood in a cabin on the top floor walk-out ~ me and the porch swing. I found a soft blanket to put down on the seat and laid on it. When I felt like it I could toe the deck to rock me to sleep. But before slumber fell, I watched the outline of the trees with their new little buds against the slate colored sky. The nightsounds: chain softly creaking, Spring peepers, a crackling fire not quite out, water against the pond shore, occasional breeze stirring up some branches, gurgling from a spring nearby. I thought of nothing in particular.... Well, I thought of something, but that's private.

And I thought of one other thing. It was about place. I thought about sporadic connection to that place. And that place not being any further away from me than in my own bones. The times that I feel home here, I am home everywhere.