in the liminal, what is possible?
resident gopher snake, after a big meal.
Sept. 7th. 10am. Sonoma County, Ca, USA.
yellow. no, orange. no, creamy eggshell. salmon? milky, in a sour kind of way. A soup of fog and smoke. thick, definitely thick.
Today the world is a different color.
The sun is so blocked out that it’s not quite day and yet not still night.
What to do in this space between night and day?
Neither is fully here on this otherwise average day in early Fall. There is still a bird here and there, briefly naming things, but overall, this weather feels like the weather between breaths~
Should I inhale or exhale? Is there even a choice in the matter?
I know in my bones that the weather out there is the biggest compass for the weather inside me. All my chemicals, compounds, hormones…all tuned to the light of the sun.
like a sunflower, I subconsciously orient towards the light - or dark - of the sky.
Looking out into the salmon colored thickness, I feel like I am inside an egg, or behind closed eyelids, looking out.
Maybe this is what my eyes first saw, looking through layers of womb from inside. Maybe this is what it looks like before something new emerges.
Rebecca Solnit’s words surface: “The future is dark, with a darkness as much of the womb as the grave.”
It’s hard to choose hope in this moment of bleakness, but my eyes rest on the willow stick I recently lopped off and stuck in the ground, and wonder: could this mix of fog and carbon be like a cool smoothie of potential green and growth for you, dear stick? What does the weather feel like for you? Curiosity is medicine we all knew once. Changing my lens instantly changes my breath, exhaling into possibility. My cells re-orient to orange, the color of the clown after all, the one who expertly navigates between joy and grief.
Here’s to looking out from deep inside, like a caterpillar folded into a chrysalis, a yolk finding it’s form, a baby reaching into the unknown.
who knows what’s possible from here?