How strange

to think I lived for a year in England and did the transatlantic flight several times with no worry, even on Air France when the bolts were rattling in the plane's bones and they fed me rice cakes as their vegetarian meal, even on the other planes, too, as we flew over Iceland and they showed a picture of a viking blowing hard from that land as a way to remind us that turbulence was normal, when I lived from one large suitcase and was so content.

Two weeks is nothing, right? But it's so different now. I have a "normal" job talking to people with severe, persistent mental illness and an office with a door I can close. I won't be working there for over two weeks. I was walking along Belair Road yesterday and it hit me that I would be leaving the east coast oak trees and dying grass for a place with long days and weak sunshine. The heat off Belair was melting the tar. I was excited in that moment to think about new air and different pollens and barometric patterns. How is it that my life has gotten so small?

I read some of the poems in the workshop packet and worried about the age of the group. I sensed youth. I sensed my own age. It will be fine, I know. I know. And on the subject of cultural differences, I have decided to try images. I started a tumblr for the trip. Maybe you want to see it? Wooden Hinges I do not know if I will actually post anything on it, though, because I am for words. I am for reading. I will post some images here on this old blog, for sure, and write here, too, and continue to believe that the Internet is also for things that require language.

Wish me luck and wish me luck in the Sanskrit-cousin tongue of my mother's people.