Musings from the homeland, mid-summer
A Minnesota morning with perfect temperatures and not-so-strong coffee because I don’t need it.
The symphonies of the birds guided my breath this morning and all I want for breakfast is my pen on this paper.
It’s refreshing knowing I don’t have to figure out where I’m going to sleep tonight.
The trees look more vibrant than I feel like they used to during my childhood. Greener.
Why did I hate it so much here? Why did I so badly yearn to escape?
I may not have belonged to the people, but I’ve always been welcomed by the land.
This house is history.
It’s only ever been owned by my family and I spent a lot of time as a kid wishing it were different.
I wanted to look rich to fit in. All I spent time doing was trying to fit in. Even when I first went to New York and would come home, I wanted to fit in by being hyper “different” and cool.
Now, I look at the kitchen cabinets and my closet door and realize they’re made of oak.
Now, I am humbled.
I grew up in a tree house and inside that oak drawn closet is a wardrobe loved and collected from the many stages of who I have been and who I am becoming.
It doesn’t need to be shown off - just loved and worn with respect of the richness of its history.
This house and my clothes and my body are lived in. Perfectly lived in.
It’s all perfectly raised with markings and snags and bruises. Like the inside of an old oak tree, every rung is dressed in story.