Sometimes it takes little more than returning to the Earth. Than laying our blanched bodies before the springtime sun and allowing it to work its way into the knots of our corrupted skin. Sometimes it merely takes reminding, that somewhere in the world vines wind their way up fields with fealty. Somewhere in the world, the greatest passions of our lives lay dormant in pockets. Somewhere in the world, not very far away, we are somewhere else, dotting the fields of someone else’s minds with fealty.
There are many ways to say I love you. What a remiss and absolutely desolate existence it becomes to discount them. I’ve been checking a website for an hour and half to get you a vaccine appointment. Have you eaten today? I hope you slept well. The world is practically drenched with love letters and we abate them like chintzy greeting cards because we are greedy for big, loud, boisterous love. Our lives drip with a syrupy, delectable love that we siphon off like simple tree sap.
We’ve become too busy for the ordinary, too accustomed to the subtle. But sometimes all it takes is returning to the Earth, for the afternoon. Drowning your fuming brain with pink wine instead of chattering blights. I return from the watchfulness of the mother sun and I can’t imagine cloaking my body. This incredible thing that the world gave to me, and I will give back. I can’t imagine not spinning in a friendly breeze that cuts the heat. I can’t imagine not having another glass of wine. I can’t imagine a world without you.
In these useless moments, completely unencumbered with purpose, I think to myself, without cause, I will be okay. There is nothing wrong in my life. I have dreamed of this life it took me decades of toiling to assume. I am swimming in gratitude, I am finding new ways to love what I’ve been given. But I know, it takes little more than returning to the Earth. And still, I think you might be my angel. I think you might be my angel, I think you might be.