Two streets over from where I am right now is a tree that is the source of the white fluff that's been drifting through the air in this neighborhood. Not sure of the kind of tree, but it is bursting with fluff right now, weightless feathery bits of white coming off it in swirling waves, the slightest breeze producing a soft, soundless blizzard of swirling white. To the point that -- and I am not exaggerating here -- walking past, for a block in all directions, is like passing through a springtime snowglobe. Could be it's not so wonderful for those living nearby, but for me on this lovely, mild June day it felt positively dreamlike.
Returned briefly to Vermont a few days back. Had found myself spending too much time solo here, felt the impulse to head south for a couple of days. I tend to trust my impulses when they're clear like that (ignoring the common wisdom re: the geographic cure), so stuffed some bags into the car, hit the road. Had only planned to be there two days, but it felt like coming back early this morning instead of yesterday would be a good idea, so made it three. A clear feeling, that, and I trusted it. Got to enjoy Montpelier looking and feeling its warm season best -- a day predicted to be gray, rainy giving way to blue skies, radiant sunshine. Took care of matters needing attention, soaked up fine weather, watched two real damn good DVD's, crawled out of bed excessively early this a.m., was back in Montreal by 10. Clouds and blue Canadian sky trading off, air soft, day feeling lazy and sweetly relaxed.
Have not been back to the house since clearing out on the 1st of the month, a day so intense and hectic that it slid past in a vivid blur of constant, high-speed labor, me watching what had been my living space morph into an empty collection of rooms, the world outside shining with sunlight, greens impossibly green, birds everywhere. At one point, during a pause in the process (the three 20-somethings who were wrangling my possessions -- what I hadn't already stuffed into a storage space during the previous month -- taking a breather in the truck), I wandered outside, sat on the front stoop, stared out at the valley. A meadow lark in the nearest tree began producing song, going on as I listened -- on and on and on, pausing, singing, pausing, singing more -- almost as if saying a sweet 'see ya!' before finally taking off, disappearing into greenery down the hill.
Made the trip into town with the moving dudes, they wrestled my stuff from truck to apartment, then I returned to the house to collect what remained. Managed to cram two carloads of assorted hooha into my little vehicle (it remains a mystery how I managed it; there must have been some bending of the laws of physics involved) when I finally drove away, going slowly up over the hill -- the view, the house, the expanse of green land, the small barn, all receding and disappearing -- it was one of the more difficult shearing-aways I have ever experienced, leaving me half-numb for the ride into town. And it was a blessing that there was a mountain of labor to be done in the following days, leaving me without the time to feel too deeply as I worked at settling in to the cramped perch that will be my base in the coming months as I begin moving on, heading toward whatever the hell comes next.
I've been trusting my feelings and instincts, relying on impulses and all that. And they have not let me down. I haven't had the desire to go back out to the house, have not questioned that. Instead, I've waded through the stream of present moments, making my way through the ocean of details that life consists of. And not only have gradually begun feeling better, more focused, have found myself experiencing a growing sense of freedom and lightness, at times so voluptuous and all-enveloping that all I can do is surrender to it, experiencing pure, simple happiness.
Have made a friend here who was a judge two years ago for the Montreal Fireworks Festival, an event that is just cranking up. That individual remains connected to the happening, I will be attending tonight's installment via their generosity. Will drag my camera along, we'll see what comes of it.
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Inexplicably yiddisher graffito, Montreal:
schmaltz, also schmalz (shmälts)
n.
1. Informal usage: a) excessively sentimental art or music; b) maudlin sentimentality.
2. Liquid fat, especially chicken fat.
España, te echo de menos
rws 4:40 PM [+]
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