Lately I’ve been traveling in time and space, often finding myself at an intersection where most folks tend to pull out too gingerly to create adequate room for the car approaching.
The turn out is not blind, but because of how the lake reflects around the bridge, I think drivers maybe can’t gauge the speed and distance of oncoming vehicles appropriately.
Waterways are captivating, and driving is unnatural, anyway.
When I cross this threshold, by the lake and the hidden lane, I feel pulled deep into the moment. Nothing is ahead, behind isn’t real— all I have is me, the pavement, and the trees.
Is that what reality feels like? Hovering suspended but hurtling through the turn, real as I will ever be, and gloriously ‘enough’ for the split second in time. Safe in my car, capable of handling the lines on the road, happy to be alive.
In my bones, I have been hearing echoes of water. The cells are dancing with some knowingness that is so much older than I, and they want me to hear. It feels like hope. Like the sight of a baby bird in a nest, content and new and destined to fly.
How terrifyingly small and fragile, but probably it's going to be fine, and soar.
Life’s been like that, lately.
Spring is coming.
That is a very nice bird