sour grass
Home has become obscenely and disgustingly beautiful since I started making plans in earnest to leave.
Someone reminded me recently of the “fact" that all your cells die and renew every 7 years, meaning as of last October all of me cells, and all of Soul’s cells, have only known living here.
“You could be happy here another 7 more” the winds whisper “the sour grass will keep painting the sides of the roads yellow and the wheel of fortune will keep turning. Sometimes all the familiar faces will be suffocating, but just as often they will be cozy. There will always be another party, always something to fill your calendar, always a new baby to care for, snuggled up to your chest.
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There are plenty of things to drown out the cries of your essence which are ready for more and different, to distract from the heart pull you have felt tugging you over the bridge and into the ocean all these years.”
I tell some dance friends I am moving and feel loved when they react with some small horror. Two of them cuddle me one either side while I hold hands with a third and press my feet against the legs of another. They ground me into the earth of Berkeley, into the field at Strawberry Creek where I have drank so many Kokotu lattes with different lovers, where Soul has grown from curly-headed fat-legged toddler into the long and lean creature he is now.
I stop at the tea house on a whim. I want to read so many of the books on the shelf. I regret not coming here more. I appreciate these things more, even though it is silly, even though I am just going to be over the bridge and commuting back for work, I am moving because I understand that it will change me and I have decided that I should like to throw myself into the alchemical fire once more, forever more, and I have an idea of what I think will come out the alembic but of course cannot know for sure.
And so part of me is mourning this current self.
