Fried Eggs

Juno woke me before seven again, only this time I tried to steal another half hour of precious comfort, probably because it was grey and rainy. I should have known better. 82 pounds of frantic dog vs. one hundred and.....um.....a sleeping woman is no match. So out we went. I can't say I was grateful, that the sunrise through the haze did anything (or even that it was visible, off under the clouds as it was) or that my soul was turned. But we went.

I feel so disconnected here. It's not just the job, it's the very New Jerseyness of it all. I have no place to plug in that part of me. The canal, Herrontown Woods, none of it is big enough, or close enough, or real enough. That, more than anything else, is what draws me to the lake (the lake.....those words used to mean something else entirely, a different set of comforts, a different definition of home. Still they ring true, but it's not what comes first to mind.) More than the thought of Robin, of Juno, of whatever fractured dream I finally am beginning to leave behind. It's the possibility of being whole, the thought of waking to herons more than once in a summer, the promise of quietude and solemnity and the cocoon of my own sacred space not ending when I turn the doorknob. He has to know that, he has to see it on my face when I'm on the water in late afternoon. Does he think it's something else? Does he fear I'm thinking of the past? It's so hard to reach him right now, both of us just so freaked out about our own personal shit that we're not really connecting the way we usually do.

So, home again. The lake, the pines, and always the great greyblue ache of sky. Maybe that is the call. Maybe I am meant to listen, one small note at a time.