These are the days of green.

Days of full foliage, and the air almost seems green, too.

These are the days of the humidity you don't notice till you get out of it.

The days of dehydration.

These are the days of silence.

These are the days of the trees. The days you miss the sky but you don't know it till you see it -- and you exhale.

I need breathing room.

These are the days of the magic factor in my music, of a thousand old podcasts like old friends to send me to sleep at night.

These are the days of reconsidering what I always thought I knew about myself.

These are the days of receiving love and realizing that, without having to try so hard, I am understood. The days of knowing who my people are.

The days of not writing very much.

Sometimes you just need a break.

The days of Corelli and Canyon City and Howells and The Oh Hellos.

These are the days of silence.

Keep quiet. Say nothing. Hear everything.

Be unnoticed as much as possible, and I'm not sure yet if this is wisdom or cowardice.

(But something tells me it's wisdom.)


These are the days of opening wide your arms and unhinging your jaw and taking in all the books you can.

The days are blurry and the seams are loose and the world is moving too fast in front of your eyes and under your fingertips.

These are the days of secrets cupped warm and close to your heart as you breathe in their scent.

Summer is blurry at the edges and sleepy in its limbs and its eyelids are heavy. I am either too cold or too sweaty but never, somehow, simply warm.

I am sleeping more because my body is creating something in the depths of my soul and it needs all its capacities --

and these are the days of reconsidering everything you always thought was true about you and realizing that maybe you just had the wrong idea.

That you always knew who you were.

Narnia soundtrack and The Bachelorette. Tea both iced and hot (but mostly hot).

The days of rusty writing and slurping tears and rest for a voice that needed it.

Rest for a body, a soul that needed it.

Days of discovering where you belong.

Days of pointless computer alerts and fear and too-big rings that slide around your fingers as you type. Memories of last summer, which was black around my field of vision and one too-hot, surfeited blur.

I expect new beginnings to come in other times but summer this year is surprising me.

Somehow something is rushing on me that I never expected -- but it feels at home within me.

So welcome, welcome, welcome.

Bring me the unexpected magic that strikes you closest on your Chosen Hill.

Come in.

Show me who I always was. Who I ever am.

Show me which trees are mine -- I already know, but I could do to stare at them a little longer.

I could do to stare at them forever.

Welcome, and welcome me, and bring me home.