Being back at Pulali is like being in heaven, or what some may experience from taking a drug. Today it snowed, sleeted, rained, and then the sun struck, creating a billion sparkles outlining every leaf, and a translucence of light as the mist rose from the tree trunks.
Walking here means straight up a steep hillside first, on paths that lead directly from the house. I walk for miles because I can’t get enough of the beauty, fresh air, shore birds, bald eagles, tiny birds. I feel a sort of a heaviness or weight of breath. And of course it’s great to live in a house where I designed every square inch, used recycled materials where I could, and scavenged everything. It fits me. It’s familiar.
After about a week in Manhattan, you feel the weight of all the other people, their stories, their deaths speeding by in ambulances. The pedestrians or bicyclists or runners crashing into you if you don’t look lively. The never-ending noise.
Now, I am looking out my window at the waxing gibbous moon, the gray water. I wish I knew a word for the shade of green of the moss right when it’s starting up freshly in spring. I want to pet it. I want to lie down in it and roll around. I want to pray to it. I want to know its name.
