Georgia O’Keefe clouds overhead and a symphonic movement of yellow peppering the hillsides now. The flowers all disappeared for a spell, and miraculously, they’re back in full song. The sunflowers are early adapters. They’ve all sprung up in grand, extended families in the deepest arteries of the flood damage.
"It’s the witching hour for fishes," you said.
Sometimes, I think this uphill climb would all be so much easier if I were God-willing and GodFearing.
It’s been a monsoon summer. Almost a year ago now, the One Hundred Year Flood.
I can’t say exactly when it happened, when it settled into bones that now feel halfway empty. Was it when the switchgrass was tall or high? Time keeps passing, and keeps eluding me in a writhing, aching way. I feel a void, and don’t have words for it. None of this seems easy anymore, but at least it’s quiet?
I sit next to people who are on Facebook 24/7, and have this anxiety that I’m missing missing missing something. Not keeping up.
Then, I get out here, under this moss that you used to call “Old Man’s Beard,” and know that it’s a tightrope balancing willpower act all day long. Between this monitor and that. It takes much more effort to unplug and experience, than it does to “Like,” and I worry that the void the ache the fear is somehow wrapped up in all of this. And then again, I wish I could just take a Facebook pill and be ok with ingesting a newsfeed and feeling sustained.