Woman in the Field

I feel your names like beats of grounding. I’ve met more soul mates, on my barefoot walk. Still a woman in the field. The homeland these feet know is a land of passing. And more and more the love I train in is the same. You’ve known it, as I have passed by you. All of you. I’ve never been staying.

I look around to find if there is some specific place in time that I shall hark back to, as I write this. A pinpoint to orient me. I don’t know how to write to ‘you.’ I don’t know who I’m writing to.

This is why everything I do must be a love letter – love, for obvious reasons, and letters as a means of orienting. A tendril that hopes to grab onto something. And I leave these letters to return to, as markers in time. The act of making them, a ritual of remembering and setting something down to remember. 

I feel like I’ll forever be learning the mapping. How to record, but not just let the archive be a pile of mess. I cannot continue to keep floating around in space. I need to go back through the files. Filing.

But this task is endless, and shall I lock myself away from any new stimulus while I attempt it? Everywhere I go I collect new information to be processed.

I must just simply start here. Lay down a line, nut out a system. Record intentionally. File as we go. And be selective in our engagements.

There seems to be no better time. It is a Tuesday, 14th of December, 2021. My favourite day of the week. I sit here now facing a fire I have tended to for roughly 7 hours. It is my company, and I read this aloud, my own voice melding with the embers.

I can finally understand where I am, through ritual, through distance, through output. Barely, and for what I worry will only be a moment. But I live on this page. And as I write, I sense all the women with me. All the women I have been, and loved. 

I don’t want to let them go flippantly, to let you go. I want to stay. I want to know what it is to stay.

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