(In the tropical jungle)
It’s freezing cold. I just finished a couple of articles about electricians… wrote from what I knew about electricians – that they are in charge of things, um, electronic. Actually, I did fill in the article with grit that I grabbed from a government-run website that described the nature of the electrician’s job and the qualifications in order for a person to become one. Dry stuff, but I do take comfort in the thought that what I’m doing gives me the means to line my nest with warm quilts and my stomach with rice, meat and vegetables.
Rain patters softly on the roof and finds its way in through the holes in the rusty GI sheets; there’s barely a dry surface on the floor. The waterfall quality of our roof and the fact that the central cottage is about to cave in if the dogs sneezed together are the things that make me wish that I could extend my stay here until I could help set things right again.
Perhaps these things are making me decide more speedily on where I should spend this year. Home.
It’s not Kansas. It’s home.
My tropical jungle. Here, I am amidst the ferns, the moaning bamboo forests, the swaying coconuts, the tree frogs, the coffee-hued soil…
The past two years that I lived far from home were essential. The time apart placed things in their appropriate perspectives. But I guess it’s time to buy that return ticket. Before the dogs forget my scent. Before the ferns have flourished and withered. Before the jungle refused to embrace me as ever her own.