same. but different.
i tried to become something new and all that was left was formless. i could not see beyond the white.
and so, when asked, my friend said–i still see you there.
there, i know who you are.
i was eager to discard. to slaughter the self that came before the cut. to be something so vastly becoming, expanded and without a previously defined entity.
what do we do when we are no longer that, but not quite this?
and so, the return to a refreshed same. something left unfinished. something still forming.
a reclaimed, restored, updated home, for now. one that has housed some of the best of my memories. my creative stretch. my midlife crisis. my landings in foreign places. my lost and my found.
i’m still here, on the crest of freedom. this place is still the portal.
what was written before is now printed and scattered over the floor, mine to transform into the memoir that asks to be written; a story of travels through doorways, both inside my heart and around the world. travels of beauty and connection, of grace and guts, of above, below and through. my story. rooted in the foundation, the most curious beginning, that made it possible.
thank you for being here. it is good to be home.