I am a wanderer. I have always been.
I covet being alone, or with a very select few. I always have.
My bones were shaped in the same way shells are made: washed over and over and over by waves and currents and tides. I am at home in the ocean, beneath the water. I surface and lick my lips. The crunch of salt, the brine in my hair, water dripping from my eyelashes is enough and enough and enough.
If I could twist my wrist and fan out my soul it would be the pale coral of the hibiscus, the heavenly white of the plumeria, the waxy green-brown leaves of the magnolia. And these days there is the sharp-soft outline of the agave, the tease of the cactus's stark beauty.
If I could grab my spirit and hold on for flight it would be on the wings of the swallowed-tail kite, the soft hollow between the eyes of the hawk, the underbelly of the owl, the grace of the blue heron.
I am a woman of water. I ache for the moon. I am an open road.
fill your lungs up
with life and
repeat after me:
i am alive
i am alive
i am alive.
It's terribly easy to forget who you are.