I've been landed in Belfast for over a month, this home of my new bones, this place that does provide a rest, if one that feels separate from the troubled world. I'm nervously moving about the place, afraid of suction-cup-for-feet but fearful of this wandering upon which I have set my sights. Facing the sun of opportunity is a means of navigating this transition from part-time to full-time art maker.
As most transitions, it is a sensitive time and I feel the regrowth of old limbage. I move ahead in faith, grateful that at this specific instant I am taken care of; I hope next month is the same. I've been housesitting my way through the month, which means living with the ever-present memory of absent dear ones.
I never seem to bring a heavy enough jacket for my days out in Belfast.
The California drought burned the memory of cold weather out of my body's mind.