now in the shifting light

after a few years of writing this newsletter something changed in the past few months i feel a little slower. a little more inward. a little protective.

i notice because i keep this kind of writing as a timepiece. i return to it because i think we all return to things that keep up awake, keep us visible, keep us checking the pulse of what it means to live

now in the shifting light of late october

now in the decline of a rabidly industrial hundred and fifty years

now in the face of imagined and unknowable instability

i went for a walk this morning, the first one after returning from a trip. i had new eyes and saw that the oak trees all around me were dying. there was a wind while i was gone, one that comes this time of year, called los diablos.

there were broken limbs everywhere, some were half the size of the tree,

cracked off lying across the path, the inside of the trunks rotten with disease, almost foamy they were so hollowed out

it was perfectly cool and my cheeks stung a little

i was breathing heavy, steamy, making my way up the steep hill

the hills were beautiful in the low light, soft, blue, gold, clear and inviting

for some reason i couldn’t stop tearing up. i kept thinking as i walked about how unimaginable things can feel both the big and the small. i kept thinking about what we do in the face of the unimaginable. about the steadiness it takes, about the perspective required.

about how often there is this feeling of unknowing and unknowing and more unknowing.

about how in that probably something to do is to return.

to a walk even when it changed completely

to the writing

to each other

to imagining