(Note: I wrote this over the Labor Day weekend, and I've been debating about whether to post it until just now. Please let me know what you think.)
The remnants of a hurricane blow through northern New England leaving the sky cloudy and the ground damp. The temperature isn’t quite cool enough for a bath, but I take several anyway to escape to that clearly defined warm space. The endless possibility leaves me at a loss for where I fit into the huge landscape. While my place is so well defined in other people’s minds, it is unclear in my own. The empty space of a long weekend extends the uncertainty. So I write to see what I write in the hope that the formality of the words on this page will reveal something that seems to escape the informality of my mind.
The rapid movement of the work week is easier. It leaves few unfilled spaces and little time to recalibrate my purpose and meaning in the universe. But somehow that place of reflection is always where I return to over and over, year after year. Given enough time and space the same question reemerges. The mind that asks it may be different, but the question remains remarkably the same. I, of course, have answers. But none that I choose to attach myself to.
The space is so big. The possibilities so endless. When I lived in New York City the human energy was addictively consuming. Here in Vermont the endless expanse of green provides less guidance and direction. It is space for you to fill rather than space that is filled for you. Then again it may all be only about the navigation within my own mind. All these externalities may only be convenient distractions. Places to abdicate my responsibility to.
Summer recedes quickly into Fall. I am not ready to let it go. In fact, I plot to travel somewhere where I can once again climb into its casual embrace. To sit for endless hours staring at the horizon at the end of the ocean. To walk with no destination. To arrive at a beach without knowing who will be there or when I will depart.