Last night I read this article on place in fiction by Luis Alberto Urrea, a self proclaimed "place-harlot" like me. He wants to live every place he goes. Just as I do. It's one of the reasons I travel--to imagine me (or now, us) in other houses under other trees and other skies. It's also one of the reasons I write: to live those multitudinous lives, under multitudinous skies.
We don't get away often anymore. It had been two and a half years since any of us had been on a plane. We'd barely left the county. (Yes, county, not country.)
But doing so does us well. Seeing the ocean does us well. Dry, desert air does us well. My children's eyes brightened. Freckles popped. Their legs moved.
And then we returned home to our house in its woods: a place we love as much as (or more than) any other. My kids spent yesterday afternoon in the sugar house boiling sap with their grandparents and cousins. Expansion and contraction. Horizontal vs. vertical ways of knowing. Outward and inward. It's snowing now. There's tea by my side. But it's sweetened with avocado honey, from those other trees, those other bees. Ya know?