My days have been gentle lately. I find myself settling more deeply here in Shantiniketan; a place that literally translates as ‘abode of peace’. One of my favorite local dogs, Kali, is asleep on the rug. The waterhens are gurgling somewhere within the woods of the adjoining park. I’ve collected more tomatoes from the garden than my pockets could carry, lining them up in a windowsill to ripen out of the reach of squirrels. There is a colander full of chikoo, still sticky from the tree.
It’s the mildest spring I can recall in India and today a breeze keeps the window sheers moving in and out like gossamer lungs. (My writing paused after getting interrupted by a trio of jungle babblers hopping their way through the living room. There are two feathers on a table after Kali nearly caught one in her mouth yesterday.)
I’ve been adamant about living as simply as possible here: eating wholesome foods, minimizing consumption, etc. Just last month I finally caved to my husband’s insistence that we purchase a car (I’d been getting around by bicycle and electric Toto…a sort of golf cart-sized taxi). It’s quite tiny but should make it easier to get to/from the art studio once the summer heat arrives and monsoon rains follow. On that property a new dog has taken up residence. I’ve been calling her Frida until something more suitable comes to mind (her two front feet are crippled and she was infected with open wounds and mange when I first met her). I’ve been shuffling back and forth between home and studio to care for plants and dogs as best as I can manage.
In general, the idea of being away is no longer appealing in the way it once was. I suppose I’m getting too comfortable. Connected (or tethered?).
This is on my mind after watching the film, Land, and meeting up with a new friend who sets out soon for Scotland with an open book of transient possibilities beyond that. The film, especially, reminded me of the period of time when I was placeless and crossed back and forth across America by car, camping out in gas stations, parking lots or opening up the back hatch to sleep close to nature. Of course there were motels and hostels and friends’ couches in the mix, but it was the moments when I felt swallowed up in isolation that affected me the most. Earlier this year a friend visited my studio and flipped through my only remaining copy of Places I Slept, the chapbook I created to document that phase of transience. He insisted that I revisit that work and produce it in a way that could be accessible to more people.
Instead, I was more interested in finally finishing the project that I was supposed to be making during that time; a collection of landscapes and poetry for a project to-be-named, Between These Things. However, every time I would revisit the work, I didn’t seem to be willing to revisit that emotional space. The photographs were fine, but the words revealed how much I was hurting while I tried to maneuver through uncertainty in so many areas of my life all at once. My first marriage had ended, I had no physical home to return to after spending several months abroad, I couldn’t settle on work I wanted to be doing in this world or even decide which corner of the globe I wanted to call my home where I could live easily and sustainably.
I’m wondering now, as I feel more grounded in my life than I have in nearly a decade, if it might be a good time to open myself back up to that experience. I could at least try. Are you still reading? What are your thoughts?
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