Neither Here Nor There

I have been in the land of blackbird harmonics and a thousand hues of green, where fat raindrops cling like diamond beads to leaves, and there are narrow paths and old stone walls, and the sky stays light until nearly ten, a blue-white light with ribboned remnants of sunset, and it is a magic light whose spell is still upon me.

I’ve walked through old churchyards, where the stones are ornamented with lichen, and time has erased the names and dates, and the stories have become as one and fallen silent, and the lives have pooled into stardust. 

I entered a church built in the 12th century and always open, and given prayer a try, or some version of it, far from the sandstone rock formation of home where I so often sit in contemplation and thanks. This business of being far away is so confusing. Sometimes I am neither here nor there.

We are already beginning to get sorted out for the return to California in just a few days, and this month of travel will soon evaporate into memory and dream. Right now I am hearing rain outside the window, and a day awaits of silver and green and splashy streets.