I think sometimes I belong to another place and another time. One not quite so civilized and without as many rules. One where the love is fiercer, the laughing louder and not at tables with fine china where we worry about bothering the other guests.
I think sometimes I belong to the night air and solstice fires and a brawny, bawdy people who care for the land and each other.
I belong to sunlit days and chapped skin and tangled hair and wild night skies, infinite in scope and beauty.
I belong to a Love wild and free and not constrained by supposed to’s or have to’s or rules in a book. I belong to a deeper sense of right and wrong and fierce compassion and relentless grace and justice for even the smallest among us — especially for her.
I belong to oceans crossed not in cruise ships but with tenacity and faith and doubt on wood rough-hewn by human hands.
I belong to suffering and loss and agony and pain and rising, somehow, again, like the phoenix from the ashes, not pristine and absent the fire, but rising anyway, with the fire within.
I belong to community and family and the Village and women helping women and children clinging to literal apron strings as the grandmothers with ample hips move and push and kneed today’s bread.
I belong to the rocky shore and the rising breeze and the fierce storm on the horizon that whips my hair and promises no quarter.
I sit in my wicker chair with a soft cushion, and I drink my coffee from my porcelain cup. I listen to the birds and the branches and the tap tap tap of my fingers on the keys, and still I know, there is something wild in me.